


if not for hope, the heart would break

by PitViperOfDoom



Series: assistant archivist au [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Self-Esteem Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Elias Bouchard Being a Bastard, First he needs to stop being an ass, Head Archivist Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims Needs a Hug, Martin is Doing His Best, Multi, Queerplatonic Relationships, but not until later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 84,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitViperOfDoom/pseuds/PitViperOfDoom
Summary: In hindsight, Martin probably should have turned it down, but when faced with Elias Bouchard's polite smile and an offer that would put his financial struggles behind him for good, accepting the promotion to Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute just seemed like a good idea at the time. Even if it put him at odds with Gertrude Robinson's former assistant.The good news is that there are far worse things to contend with than a disgruntled Jonathan Sims.The bad news is that he's going to have to.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, past Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims
Series: assistant archivist au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774198
Comments: 537
Kudos: 1026





	1. A Promotion

When Martin received the e-mail summoning him to Elias Bouchard’s office at his earliest convenience, he thought, _Well, that’s it then._

It was only a matter of time. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it this long. It was a miracle he’d made it in at all; he’d applied to the Magnus Institute almost on a desperate whim, because surely an academic institution would take the time to run basic background checks on new hires. But then he’d gotten a call back, and then he’d gotten a second interview, and then he’d been called in to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and that had been years ago.

And now here he was, staring at a formal message from his boss, requesting his presence for a meeting to discuss “his future with the institute”. And that could only mean one thing.

Of course, Martin thought distantly as he typed out some generically polite response. All things come to an end eventually. It might be a stretch to say _all good things_ come to an end, because sometimes he wondered if this job really was a good thing, if the stress of waiting to be caught in his lie was worth it when he still had to stretch his funds to cover rent and food and Mum’s care _and_ scrape together a rainy-day fund for emergencies.

Martin got up from his desk, half-heard Hannah’s greeting as he passed her on the way out of the library, and numbly pointed himself in the direction of Elias’s office. Already his mind was racing through the math, calculating how long he could afford to hunt for a new job.

At some point he shook himself. It was no good to walk in panicking. He just had to stay calm, somehow. Be polite. Hope like hell that he’d made himself useful enough to at least broach the topic of listing someone as a reference.

…Yeah, right.

He was lost deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice someone else heading in the opposite direction until he was already colliding with them.

Luckily, he was walking slowly enough that the crash wasn’t terrible, even if the other employee seemed to be in a hurry. It was more surprising than painful, and they both kept their footing, so… could have been worse, really.

“Sorry, so sorry—” Martin stammered as he stumbled back, only to freeze when his eyes landed on his coworker’s face. “O-oh. Morning, Jon.”

The look he got in return could have split rock. “ _Do_ try to watch where you’re going.”

Martin couldn’t help but wilt under the glare, for all that Jonathan Sims was nearly a head shorter than him. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

“Obviously I’m alright,” Jon retorted, already storming away.

“No, I know, I didn’t mean us crashing into each other, it’s just, I was wondering if…” Martin hesitated, with the growing dread of someone stepping into a minefield. Jon had paused but was looking increasingly impatient, so Martin ripped the bandage off. “I mean, are you alright, work-wise?” Jon’s scowl deepened. “It’s just, if you ever need—I dunno, an extra set of hands, or—” Jon left without a word.

“Guess not,” he muttered, mentally kicking himself. It was stupid to offer anyway, when he was probably minutes away from being let go.

Something about literally running into Jon had knocked his growing nervousness off balance, and he was almost paradoxically calm when he knocked on Elias’s office door. It was mostly open already, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

“Ah, hello, Martin.” Elias’s voice, calm and clipped though it was, brought the nervousness rushing back. “Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

Martin did as he was bade, then took the chair that Elias indicated for him and tried not to fidget. “You, er, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course.” Across from him, Elias shuffled papers that Martin was too nervous to look at. “It’s a matter of some urgency, so thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Martin said, fighting to sit still. He opened his mouth to say something else, couldn’t think of anything, and closed it again.

“You’ve been working in the library for about six years now, haven’t you?” Elias went on.

“A-almost, yes.” Martin replied, heart pounding in his throat. Distantly he wondered if Elias could hear it.

“Good, good. As I said in the e-mail, I was hoping to discuss your future with—”

“Have I done something wrong?” Martin blurted out, and immediately regretted it. For a moment he longingly imagined vanishing into thin air just to escape the situation. Or a hole opening up underneath him, maybe.

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “If there’s anything you can think of…?”

“I mean, the wording was a bit ominous,” Martin stammered out. “In your e-mail. So I was just wondering if—if there was something wrong… with how I was doing things?”

“Hardly, Martin,” Elias replied, and the relief that flooded through Martin made him light-headed. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was more than satisfied during your last performance review, and you’ve yet to give me any reason to change my mind.” Elias leaned forward, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about recent developments, concerning Gertrude Robinson.”

“The head archivist? Y-yes.” Against all odds, he did know about recent developments with Gertrude Robinson, namely that no one had seen her in a while. She was already a reclusive woman—Martin had only met her twice and seen her from afar a few times besides that—but lately she seemed to have vanished outright.

Martin wasn’t close with anyone at the institute, either in the library or the archives or anywhere else, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the gossip. It didn’t mean he didn’t notice things, like the lack of people coming in to give statements. Or how dark and still the Archives had been over the past week or so.

Or how sullen and angry Jon had been, for about as long.

“Well, work in the Archives is never done, and unfortunately she was already somewhat… understaffed,” Elias went on. “Since the beginning of her absence, I’ve been reviewing employee files in the hopes of finding a replacement.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. In the back of his mind he thought, _No, absolutely not,_ _he_ _can’t_ _possibly_ _mean_ _…_

“Simply put, Martin, I think it would be best for the position to go to you.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. “M-me? Really?”

“I can think of no one better for the job,” Elias said with a thin smile.

“ _Really._ ” Martin struggled to keep most of the disbelief out of his tone. “No one better? Not… I-I don’t know, the person who’s already been working in the Archives for the past year?” He swallowed, with some difficulty thanks to his dry throat. “I… sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But I thought… I thought Jon would replace her, as her assistant… since he’s already been working under her, a-and he’d know the archives better, and…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Elias assured him, his smile turning almost friendly. “And you’re right, I did strongly consider him for a time. But, his duties were largely research and clerical work for Gertrude, and he unfortunately lacks a background in library and information science.” He indicated one of the papers in front of him—a familiar CV, Martin realized. His CV. “You, on the other hand, have been working in our library for the past six years, and you listed a previous job at a records repository.”

“Oh, right,” Martin said faintly. What his CV didn’t say was that he’d been in the night cleaning crew, not the accessions department.

“I understand if it feels a bit daunting, but don’t worry,” Elias went on. “I have great faith in you, Martin. And as you said, Jon’s familiar with Gertrude’s system, so you’ll have his expertise to fall back on.”

Oh God. Oh _God_ , if he took this job then he’d be Jon’s boss. Unqualified, clueless, and living a lie, and Jon—with actual experience and competence and an existing predisposition to dislike him—would be his subordinate.

Oh, the thought made him ill.

Martin took a deep breath. He’d just have to turn it down. There was no upside to taking it; he was technically unfit for the job he already had, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s boss, especially not Jonathan Sims in the archives of the Magnus Institute. If he took this job, they’d find him out for sure.

“So, if that’s settled, we may as well discuss a pay raise and expanding your benefits,” Elias went on lightly. “These things come with a promotion, of course.”

Martin froze in his seat, uncomfortable and stiff in spite of its padding.

He thought of the bills on his kitchen counter, and the perpetually empty rainy-day fund. He thought of his mother, in that care home in Devon that wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“A-alright,” he said quietly, slumping a little in defeat. His eyes were fixed on that damned CV, and because of that he almost missed the look of calm satisfaction in Elias’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Martin wandered back out of Elias’s office in a daze. His feet carried him not back to the library, but down to the archives in the basement where the air turned dusty and stale. He wasn’t sure what he was there for. Maybe to apologize? Jon must have heard. Elias must have told him first, and that was why Jon was so irritated with him when they ran into each other.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Jon was nowhere to be found down there, and Martin could only search for so long before the air of the place got to him and he fled back to the library.

Even down there, away from the rest of his coworkers and well away from Elias Bouchard’s office, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the institute was on him, just waiting for him to screw up.

* * *

Martin’s first day in his new job came, in his opinion, far too soon.

He had no idea what to expect from it, that was the problem. At least in the institute library he’d been hired as an assistant, which meant he had at least one immediate superior supervising him and guiding him through his first steps into the new job. But now he was the head of a department, which meant that his only immediate superior was _Elias_.

Martin waited on bated breath for… something. A tour of the archives, an overview of what Elias expected of him, _anything_. But on his first day as the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, he passed by Elias on happenstance in the lobby, and got no more than a pleasant hello and good luck.

Maybe this was just how it worked in archives, Martin thought faintly as he made his own way down to the basement. Maybe archivists were supposed to just dive right in on day one, sink or swim. It wasn’t like he could ask—not without showing off how horribly out of his depth he was.

His head swam. There were two people who would know: Elias, who had the power to run a background check _and_ fire him, and Jon, who should have gotten this job in the first place. The thought of either of them finding out how hopelessly unprepared for this he was made him sick to his stomach.

Martin dithered for a moment at the entrance to the archives, unsure of whether to go to his own office first or greet Jon first. About thirty seconds into his indecision, he realized that he’d been standing still long enough for it to be weird, and the instinctive embarrassment sent him scurrying to the head archivist’s office. This made sense, even if it might be less polite; he could have a moment alone to gather his thoughts, run through what he was going to say, and then face his new coworker.

His new _assistant_. God help him, he had an assistant now. Why the hell would anyone give him an assistant?

He opened the door, ready for a breather not two minutes after arriving, and found Jon rooting through a desk drawer.

For a moment he could only stare. “Um. Good morning?” he tried.

Part of him expected Jon to jump, or freeze, or at least… react, in some way, to being caught going through someone else’s desk ( _his boss’s desk_ ) while they weren’t there. But Jon continued to pull documents from the drawer and arrange them neatly in a folder, without so much as an upward glance.

“Pretty sure that’s my desk?” Martin tried again.

“Yes, well, before today it wasn’t,” Jon replied, still focused on the task in front of him.

Martin waited a few moments for him to explain what that task was. The silence stretched for about a half a minute before he accepted that Jon wasn’t going to offer one unprompted. “So, um… what exactly are you…?”

“Grabbing some things Gertrude was working on,” Jon said, and unlocked another drawer to pull things out of. Before Martin had the chance to worry about Jon having a key to the desk drawers when he didn’t, Jon finished stacking files and left the key on the desk before walking out without another word.

“Ah,” Martin said to the empty room. “Right then.”

It was helpful, he reminded himself against the burgeoning discomfort. Of course Gertrude would have been working on things before she disappeared. Martin wouldn’t know the first thing about them, and he might mess them up by accident. Jon moving them was helpful, and he needed to stop being… what, territorial?

“Great start,” Martin remarked, though the room was no less empty than it had been two seconds before.

He was being silly, he reminded himself as he got himself situated. One little hiccup didn’t have to be an ill omen. A bumpy start and an awkward first impression were all part of the learning curve of a new job. He just needed a moment to brace himself. Might as well explore his new work space before trying to brave the archives proper. Maybe check Gertrude’s— _his_ desk drawers, on the off chance that Jon missed or left something behind.

Nothing in them but office supplies and stationery. _All_ of them hopelessly scattered, with no rhyme or reason to where they were. Easy fix, and a problem for later. He ventured beyond the desk, checking the shelves for any sign of projects left unfinished, notes, schedule books, maybe even some literature on what archivists were meant to do with themselves—did archives come with manuals?— _anything_ to give him some kind of clue to what he was supposed to do here.

Nothing. The shelves held a few empty boxes, a pad of paper with half its sheets ripped out and the remainder blank, some scattered pens that hadn’t made it back to the stationery drawer, and absolutely nothing useful.

That dug at the back of his mind, because—Gertrude hadn’t been fired. She hadn’t quit. She hadn’t left the institute by any normal means. She’d up and vanished one day, leaving behind nothing but a stain on her desk and one angry assistant. It wasn’t like she’d had time to clear out her office beforehand.

“Having fun?”

Martin started visibly at Jon’s voice. Dimly he remembered hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, but he must have been too preoccupied to register what they meant. “Wh—I—no, it’s just—” He stopped, collecting his thoughts and words. “I would’ve thought she’d leave some of her work lying around. The way things… happened.”

Jon was frowning, but that was nothing new. At least he wasn’t glaring directly at Martin anymore. “Police investigation into her disappearance. They took whatever wasn’t rescued first. They might give it back, but I’d rather not hold my breath.”

“Oh. That… makes sense.” The words were barely out of Martin’s mouth when he thought, absently, that there must be a difference between “rescuing” something from a police investigation and just… withholding evidence. Just because he didn’t know what that difference was didn’t mean it didn’t exist. “So, uh, anyway. Archives. Would you mind—that is, if you’re not busy, could you… show me around, a bit? Maybe I could have a look at what you’re—I mean, what Gertrude was working on, before she—” He cut himself off awkwardly. “It’d be good to figure out where I should start.”

Jon treated him to the most put-upon expression, but to Martin’s immense relief, he turned and beckoned to him. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

One section of the archives was contained within what appeared to to be the assistants’ office. The space was a bit cramped, between the three desks nearest the door and the shelving units crammed in beyond them. A lone cart sat near the back wall, piled with boxes. There were papers on the floor, and when Martin picked a few of them up in an attempt to be productive, he found a mix of statements and memos, some of them dating back years. On one of them, Martin caught the name “Jennifer Ling” scribbled into the appropriate space before Jon plucked it from his hand, muttering something about looking for it.

The next room seemed to be the main storage area. It was less cramped than the assistants’ office, taken over entirely by shelves and boxes, and… well there was no getting around it. It was the most horrendous mess that Martin had ever laid eyes on. He had to bite down on the noise of dismay that nearly escaped him when he saw what he had to work with.

He didn’t know an awful lot about what an archivist did, but he did know from all his frantic googling that at least part of it would be straightening it all out, “arranging” and “describing,” whatever that entailed. And if it was this bad now, then how bad was it when Gertrude Robinson got started? Was this how she kept things on purpose? What did she do with her time, if she wasn’t organizing this?

Not that he’d ever ask that out loud, of course. Jon had plenty of reason not to like him already. No reason to stir that pot by questioning whether his old boss could do her job. Martin didn’t know a lot about Jonathan Sims and Gertrude Robinson, but office gossip had long been of the opinion that Jon would have taken a bullet for the old woman if asked.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier to bite tongue when Martin looked on the shelves for any sort of direction or labeling system, like the library had, and found nothing. “Is there an organization system to all of this?” he asked cautiously. “How d’you find things around here?”

“Gertrude had her own system,” Jon replied.

“Oh did she?” Martin said automatically, and could have kicked himself. That sounded a lot less sarcastic in his head before he said it out loud. Why did he have to say that? “Er, could you explain it to me?”

For a moment Jon looked like he’d just drunk curdled milk. “You’re the Head Archivist,” he said in a voice as dry as dust. “You’ve worked in archives before, haven’t you? I’m sure you’ve seen the like.”

“W-well, yes,” Martin lied, swallowing panic. “But it’d take less time, right?”

“Alright,” Jon agreed readily. “Her system was to know where everything was, remember where she put things, and occasionally find them later.”

Martin wanted to scream. He buried the desire deep.

The tour, such as it was, finished quickly after that. Truth be told, there wasn’t much more to it; if you’ve seen one cluttered mess, you’ve seen them all. Martin was left wondering if this was why Gertrude had disappeared. Maybe she just threw her hands up one day and left. The temptation was already strong for Martin.

“Well, that’s everything,” Jon said, sounding relieved to be finished. “If there’s anything else you need to know about this place, then you can look through things and find out for yourself. May I go back to work now, or is there anything else you need? Wouldn’t want you to get lost down here.”

The archives had all of two rooms, and the shelves were neatly lined up even if their contents weren’t. Martin let the sarcasm roll off of him, because there was nothing else he could do about it.

“Er, yeah. I think I’m fine now. Thanks, Jon. And—” he blurted out when he saw Jon start to turn away. “Look, I know that… that this has gotten off to a weird start, and I don’t think either of us expected this, but I look forward to, you know, working with you. And thanks for your help.”

“Yes, well.” Jon sighed. “I’d rather you didn’t completely rearrange the place in her absence, so this works for both of us.”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin agreed. “One more question, then I’ll let you go—how do you take your tea?”

For a moment Jon simply stared at him with the most pained expression that Martin had ever seen. Then he turned and walked out without answering.

Selecting a box at random, Martin found it piled with statements dated anywhere from 1987 to 2012. He groaned at the sight of it, then lugged it to his new office to get to work. Learning by doing, that was the best course of action. The sooner he got into the swing of things, the sooner he could stop walking on eggshells around his new assistant—and his boss, for that matter—in the hopes that they wouldn’t notice how hopelessly in over his head he was.

The strangeness of what Jon had said did strike him, as he sorted papers by the identifying numbers he’d forgotten to ask Jon to explain. Before returning to his own work, Jon had said he’d rather Martin didn’t rearrange the archives in Gertrude’s absence. _In her absence_ suggested a temporary thing, as if Jon were merely biding his time, waiting for Gertrude to return on her own. It might even suggest that Jon knew something about her disappearance that no one else did, but Martin dismissed the thought easily. Jon couldn’t have known anything, because everyone said Jon got on well enough with Gertrude to be properly loyal, and if that was true and Jon did know something then surely he’d do something about it, phone the police at least.

But instead here he was, carrying on in the archives without her, talking as if she were only gone for a moment and Martin was her temporary replacement.

As Martin looked out over the archives he was supposed to organize, the mess they were left in, and the single box that held its own localized hopeless mess, part of him hoped that Jon was right.

* * *

The one upside to Martin’s new position was that he wasn’t going it alone. Jon was there, and as much as Jon clearly didn’t like him, he did know the archives like the back of his hand, whatever Elias might say about his role under Gertrude. Martin had heard horror stories of managers who came in and mucked things up by lording their new authority over the people who already knew what they were doing, and he was determined not to be anything like that. He was almost tempted to leave the actual management to Jon, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Jon may have wanted the position far more than Martin did, but that was no good reason to put all that work on him when he was still on an archival assistant’s pay. If Martin was going to reap the benefits, then he was damned well going to work for them.

Still, Jon’s input was valuable. At least, it was when he bothered to give it.

“Er, Jon?” Martin said, poking his head into the stacks. “Could I get your opinion on something?”

Jon didn’t look up from the boxes of statements he was apparently organizing. It was well past noon, and Martin wasn’t sure he’d seen Jon take a break yet. At some point he’d haphazardly pinned his hair out of his face with a paper clip, of all things. Martin’s fingers itched for a cup of tea just looking at him.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jon said acidly. “What is it?”

“Do you know of anyone else who’d work well here?” Martin asked.

Jon went rigid, and he finally turned to lock Martin into a glare. “What for?”

For a moment, Martin was tongue-tied. He could probably count on one hand the number of times Jon had honestly met his eyes since Elias made him head archivist. And now, all he wanted to do was look away. It wasn’t that Jon was bad-looking; he was beginning to go gray but he sort of made it work, and the scar on his eyebrow managed to be more dashing than unsightly.

But he just looked so sullen and angry, and the dark circles under his eyes didn’t help.

Martin’s first instinct was to wilt under Jon’s scowl again, but he forced himself to hold firm. “Elias warned me that the archives might be a bit of a mess—” Jon snorted. “Not that I’m blaming anyone! Obviously! It’s just, organizing the archives is more than a two-person job, and he suggested I take on more assistants, so I was just wondering—”

“I—you don’t _need_ more assistants,” Jon snapped.

“News to me!” Martin retorted before he could stop himself. “You look exhausted. And no wonder! Have you even gone on break today?” He wasn’t expecting an answer, and didn’t get one. “And even if _you_ don’t, _I_ might, you know?”

Jon was already turning back to the box of statements in front of him. “Gertrude and I got on fine with just the two of us.”

Considering the cluttered state of the archives, Martin doubted that a bit, but he wasn’t about to doubt it out loud. “Well, all right,” he conceded. “Could we at least discuss the filing system in this place? There’s… kind of a lot going on in here, and I’m not sure where to start.”

“I can handle filing,” Jon answered. “It’s one of the things Gertrude always had me do. In the meantime, written statements need to be digitized.”

“That I can do,” Martin said, struggling to hide his immense relief.

Jon turned to look at him again, his expression considering instead of irate—for once. “I can prepare them for you,” he offered. “There’s a lot, and it’s not terribly interesting.”

“That’d… that’d be great, thanks.” Martin wrestled with surprise and relief again. Jon didn’t have to like him—would probably never like him, considering he stole a promotion out from under him. But if they could just work together, that would be fantastic. If Martin could figure out a way to make it feel less like the lion’s share of the work was on Jon, it would be even more fantastic.

And then, not a day later, Elias came through for him.

“Elias didn’t tell you?” Tim Stoker asked as they shook hands. “He just approved our transfer from research to archives.”

“He said you might need some extra hands,” Sasha James added.

“It’s great to have you,” Martin said with a relieved smile. They were researchers, and that was exactly what he needed. Statements needed follow-up and verification, after all.

Half-hidden by several cardboard boxes on his desk, Jon looked disgruntled at their arrival. Martin couldn’t help but pity him a bit; the changes just kept coming at him, and there was only so much that peace-offering tea could fix.

But if Jon was truly unhappy that Tim and Sasha were there, he never brought it up. And eventually, between the passage of time and the extra help, work settled into a rhythm, and the knot of anxiety that had twisted into being in Martin’s chest began to loosen. It was a bit tedious, but not too different from normal office filing.

And if there was one thing Martin could do, it was pick up new tasks quickly. He had to compensate for his falsified CV somehow.

And so, they settled into a more regular workflow. Jon prepared old statements for him, Martin recorded them digitally, and Tim and Sasha handled the legwork in following up and verifying each one. In terms of organization, he did his best. The number IDs baffled him, until Jon deigned to explain how Gertrude had dated them.

Martin had to wonder why the statements didn’t seem to be organized by those numbers, though. Surely they ought to be ordered by the date they were given? And if Gertrude had been the one to come up with the number system in the first place, then why hadn’t she bothered to organize them herself?

He chalked it up to his predecessor being short-handed. After all, Jon had been her only assistant for a year, and before then, who knew? It wasn’t his job to worry about that, just to fix it now. And he would do that. He didn’t have a choice at this point.

So many things still nagged at him. The work ahead of him, the questions that neither Jon nor Elias would answer, and…

He didn’t have proof. He couldn’t even be sure he was seeing it. But he could swear that, every now and then, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon watching them hawklike from his desk with dark, silent anger

* * *

Tea worked wonders for a sore throat, and given how many statements he had to record, Martin needed every drop he could get. The statement before him was not a particularly difficult one; in fact, he was nearly done with it. All that was left was adding a few final notes on the follow-up that Tim had provided.

He was now weeks into this job, and already the statements were beginning to wear on him. It wasn’t the content, just the uniform, unchanging outcome that he reached on all of them. When he drained his current mug, he was only too happy to get up for a refill, plus a second mug for Jon. Jon didn't thank him for it, but Martin was used to that by now.

“What’s the matter?” Jon’s voice startled him as he put together follow-up notes, and Martin realized with a jolt that he had just sighed for about the third time in as many minutes. He’d been too absorbed in Tim’s report to realize.

“Hm? Oh! Oh, nothing, just… another unverified statement,” he said. “Not even unverified, Tim’s follow-up completely debunked it. Pretty much all of them have been like that.”

To his surprise, Jon scoffed. “What did you expect? This place documents the supernatural. You’re not going to ‘verify’ anything.”

Martin blinked, slowly raising his head from the mess of papers he’d been staring at. Across from him, Jon continued not to look at him. “Jon, do you… not believe in—”

“Do I not believe in the supernatural?” Jon finished for him. “I’ve been combing through statements for a year, and I was a researcher for three more before that. Every story that comes through here has a reasonable explanation, and if it doesn’t, then it’s usually a tall tale made for attention. You may as well get used to it.”

“Oh. Then… why keep working here?” Martin asked.

“It’s a job. And I liked working for Gertrude.”

Jon left shortly after that, but Martin still counted it as a win. It was a conversation that started and ended civilly, and with Jon, Martin would take what he could get.

So, things went smoothly. And then they didn’t, a bit.

Martin couldn’t recall exactly when he’d set this particular statement on his desk. That by itself wasn’t odd; the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute never ran out of tasks, and sometimes his mind wandered while his hands worked. It also wasn’t odd to see thin shreds of spiderweb clinging to the pages as he picked them up; most of these statements had been sitting in dusty boxes for months or even years.

The oddities didn’t start until Martin actually tried to record the thing.

“Oh hey, Sasha, are you busy?” Martin asked the first person who happened to walk in.

“A bit, but I can leave off if you need me,” Sasha replied. “What is it?”

“Does your computer have the recording software installed?” he asked. “Mine’s acting up.”

“I think so. D’you need to borrow it?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

This time he tried recording a few sentences from it first, just as a test. The result was the same; when Martin tried playing it back, the audio was corrupted beyond recognition.

From her vantage point over his shoulder, Sasha frowned. “That’s weird. Is that what happened at your computer, too?”

“Pretty much.” Martin tried looking through options and settings on the program, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “Might have to bring IT into it.”

“Maybe… oh!” Sasha stood up straighter, and Martin looked up and followed her gaze to where Jon had just entered the room. “Hey, Jon, has this ever happened before?”

Martin winced, wondering if he should call her off. Jon looked busy, and experience said that interrupting a busy Jon led to snapping. And, sure enough—

Jon’s head jerked up irritably. “Has what ever happened before?”

“Just having trouble with the recording software,” Martin answered. “The recording keeps getting corrupted. Don’t worry about it, I’ll just send a help desk ticket to IT—” Jon had already crossed the room, and was reaching over the desk to take the statement in front of him.

“This isn’t one of the statements I gave you,” Jon said shortly, as if that had anything to do with whether or not the computer program was working.

“Uh, it isn’t?” Martin blinked, confused. “It was on my desk.”

Jon’s scowl deepened. Without another word, he turned and left the room, brushing by Tim as he entered. The other assistant turned to watch as he left, one eyebrow raised.

“ _Someone’s_ in a mood,” he remarked, not nearly quietly enough for Jon not to have heard. “What set him off this time?”

Sasha shrugged helplessly, while Martin answered, “Computer trouble? I guess? And a mix-up over a statement…” His voice trailed off. “Wait, does he snap at you too?” That sort of sounded like a problem. That was on him to fix, wasn’t it? If he was the head archivist? If he was the boss?

He tried not to feel too relieved when Tim shrugged, clearly unbothered. “He’s just like that. He was like that before you took over as head archivist. Don’t get too put out, that’s just how Jon talks. Nothing to do with you. It’s all bark, no bite.”

“It sort of feels like it does,” Martin admitted. “I mean, comparing now to how he was before…” He shook his head. “It’s just, I used to see him around back when he was still in research—he’d come into the library sometimes for materials. And he seemed… honestly pretty okay back then? But now…” _I’ve got the job that I’m pretty sure he expected to have,_ he didn’t say out loud. _So it makes sense that he wouldn’t like me very much._

“You were friends with him, right?” Sasha asked, turning back to Tim. “Back in research?”

Tim gave a put upon sigh and sat on the desk surface across from them. “Yeah, well, that was then. Thought he was a bit of a bastard at first, but then I got to know him and found out he was a _funny_ bastard. Bit flighty, took himself a little too seriously, but we got on fine. And then a year ago _something_ must’ve happened, because suddenly he was in a piss-poor mood all the time.” Tim paused, casting a quick glance at the door. “Pretty sure he got dumped, actually.”

That was not what Martin had expected. “He—wait, really?”

“Someone actually used to date Jon?” Sasha blurted. “By _choice?_ ” At Martin’s look, she shrugged. “What? Does he seem like the dating type to you?”

“Tim just said he was nicer back then! I _remember_ him being nicer!”

“Did you ever meet her?” Sasha asked, turning back to Tim.

“Nah. Don’t even know if it was a her. But sometimes he’d duck out of drinks and mumble something about having plans.”

“That could mean anything,” Sasha pointed out. “Or he could’ve been fibbing to get out of being social.”

“Nah, he texted too much to be fibbing. He had that _look_ , you know?”

“We really shouldn’t be gossiping about coworkers,” Martin said, a little desperately.

“Anyway, that stopped and his mood took a dive,” Tim went on. “And I _told_ him, you know, plenty of fish in the sea and all that, no point letting one bad breakup hold him down, but that only made it worse.”

“I wonder why,” Sasha said dryly.

“And that was around when he transferred to archives, and I stopped seeing him around,” Tim finished. “Gertrude kept him busy. And when I did happen to see him, he was… I dunno. Different.”

Curiosity overcame Martin, trampling over politeness. “Different… how?”

“Sort of… far away?” A dark look crossed Tim’s face for a moment, there and gone in an instant. “He went full workaholic and suddenly I couldn’t talk to him anymore. We’re probably not friends anymore." His mouth twisted into a wry look. "I mean, he’s clearly not happy I’m here, and I’m not even the one who got the promotion he probably wanted.”

Martin choked on his tea. “I—I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Sasha said patiently. “Honestly, I’ve got ten years in academia under my belt, so when position opened up, _I_ was sort of hoping for it myself." (Martin winced—great, that was _two_ people he'd stolen a promotion from.) "But it was Elias’s decision. I know that, and Jon should know that, so if he’s honestly angry with you over it, then it says more about him than it does about you.”

“I could’ve said no,” Martin murmured, half to himself. _I should’ve,_ he thought.

In the interest of being thorough and attentive to his duties, he still brought up the computer issue with Elias. Faulty equipment was worth reporting, and judging by Elias’s approving if confused smile, he agreed.

“Jon didn’t tell you?” Elias asked. “There’s been an issue with that software for a while, even if it records just fine most of the time. But there are tape recorders in storage, so, should the problem arise again, just use that. Preservation is most important, regardless of format.” He must have seen something in Martin’s expression, because his gaze sharpened. “You’re sure Jon didn’t mention this? I could’ve sworn he encountered this problem working under Gertrude.”

“Yeah, well, Jon’s not the most… talkative,” Martin replied, hoping this wouldn’t cause trouble for him. Jon might not like him, but he didn’t want to get him written up or anything. “I didn’t think to ask about other ways to record, and we’ve been busy, so I’m not surprised it slipped his mind.”

“He always did work too hard,” said Elias. “It worries me. Do keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

“I will,” Martin replied. _If he lets me._

True to Elias’s word, Martin found an old tape recording apparatus squirreled away in the clutter of the storage room. A cursory look around uncovered a second, as well. When he returned to his desk, there was a statement waiting for him. Jon must have left it, he assumed, because it wasn’t one that he recognized.

He did try it on the computer first, but the program was still on the fritz, apparently. It took a minute or so to get the tape recorder working, but eventually, with a satisfying click and whir, it started running. In spite of himself, Martin grinned. Digital audio files might have a better shelf life than tape, but there was a certain charm to analog recording.

“Right,” Martin breathed, getting the papers in order. “Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0122204. Statement of Nathan Watts, given April 22, 2012.”

The recording took all of his attention for the next fifteen or so minutes. So absorbed was he in Mr. Watts’ story that when the door opened and Jon walked in, he didn’t even notice.

It was better that he didn’t. Had he looked up, the expression of cold, helpless fury on his assistant’s face would have tied his tongue in knots.


	2. Cross Purposes

Martin couldn’t remember who it was that introduced him to the concept of killing with kindness. It wasn’t his mum. It _definitely_ wasn’t his dad. From what little he allowed himself to remember of his school days, it probably wasn’t any of his teachers or peers, either.

But somewhere down the line the idea had instilled itself in his head, and it was the one he always fell back on when he wasn’t sure what else to do. It didn’t always work—rarely worked—but there was a comfort to knowing he tried. If he couldn’t avoid being disliked, then at least he did as little as possible to earn it.

That was probably why he kept bringing Jon tea when he didn’t really get anything out of it except, at most, surprised frowns and grunts of acknowledgment. From Sasha and Tim he got the usual thank-yous and you’re-lovelies, but from Jon he was lucky to get a second glance. It didn’t help that he knew how Sasha and Tim took their tea—because they told him when he asked—but all he got from Jon when he asked was a shrug and a vague answer about how tea was tea no matter what you put in it. That was a step up from silence and walking away, but still not very helpful.

He knew that Jon was drinking it at least, because he left the mugs lying around wherever he decided to put them down. Jon never got up to take them back to the break room, much less wash them, much less go to the trouble of making his own tea. But he drank it, and that was the important part, wasn’t it? The gesture wasn’t going entirely to waste, at least. It was also sort of helpful; Martin could tell whether he was getting it right by how much room-temperature tea was left once Jon had forgotten about it. Anything half-full and above was a failure, and the ultimate goal was an empty mug.

On this particular day, the tea he brought also happened to be a peace offering. Not that Jon was particularly upset with him, any more than his usual stiff displeasure, but when Martin needed to ask something of him, it just felt like a good idea to soften it somehow.

If only Tim didn’t feel the need to call him on it.

“Someone’s persistent,” Tim remarked with a slight grin. Martin winced, embarrassed but grateful that Tim was keeping his voice down, with Jon in the room.

“I do this for all of you,” he answered, hoping he didn’t sound as defensive as he felt. “I’m not being persistent, just… just _con_ sistent. I’m not gonna leave him out just because he’s…” He let it trail off there, shooting a quick glance over to make sure Jon wasn’t listening in.

“Don’t worry about it so much,” Tim urged him, not for the first time. “It’s not as if he’s singling you out. Watch—” He pitched his voice across the room to where Jon was looking through statements. “Hey Jon! Want to get drinks after work?”

“Not particularly,” Jon replied, without looking up.

“See?” said Tim, turning back to Martin. “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it get drunk with you.”

“Is there something either of you need from me?” Jon asked. “Or are you just going to talk about me like I’m not here?”

“Sorry,” Martin said, finally coming over with the tea. “I could actually use some help on statement follow-up?” He gingerly placed the mug down and nudged it closer. “Two of the ones that, um, didn’t record.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to include that detail, but after the fuss Jon had made about pulling the tape recorders out of the back room, it just didn’t seem right to leave it out.

Jon grimaced. “You know, _I_ can handle those.”

Weeks ago he might have quailed and stammered at that, but daily exposure to Jon’s disdain was thickening his skin. “Yeah, well, so can I,” Martin retorted. “I know how to work a tape recorder, Jon.”

“It’s not that—”

“Besides, you take on enough projects as it is,” Martin went on before Jon could properly interrupt him. “The rest of us are here for a reason.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” Jon said tightly. “Fine. Which statements?”

Martin opened his mouth to reply, then paused. “Keep in mind I just need a bit of help, I don’t need you to take them completely. Like I said, you already take on—”

“And you also said you need my help with them. So which statements?”

Martin sighed and glanced at the statements he’d brought along. “First one’s 0122806. Statement of… Dominic Swain? He found a book called _Ex Altiora_ …” He paused. That was definitely a flash of recognition in Jon’s eyes. “Do you recognize it? It’s about a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner.”

“A Leitner book, eh?” Tim spoke up. “Those can be nasty. I heard about one that turns you inside out if you read it. And Sasha’s got a story about the memory book down in Artifact Storage. Spooky stuff.” Jon snorted. “Oh come on, Jon, even _you_ can’t deny Leitners are weird.”

“I won’t deny that Jurgen Leitner’s damned library has caused an obscene amount of harm,” Jon said flatly. “I _can_ , however, and _will_ deny that that automatically means that harm is supernatural in nature. Most cases involving Leitners can be ascribed to, at best, confirmation bias, and at worst, cultish behavior. Which, considering the nature of Leitner’s books, wouldn’t be far-fetched—”

“Look, I just wanted to be thorough in follow-up,” Martin broke in. “And this statement has a huge inconsistency—I mean, so big even the statement giver acknowledged it—and I’m not sure what it means.”

“Probably that it’s not true—”

“Jon, shut up,” Tim cut him off. “What kind of inconsistency?”

“Well, Mr. Swain mentions two people in his statement: Mary and Gerard Keay,” Martin explained. “He met and talked to both of them, ended up selling the book to them as well. Problem is, these events happened in 2012, and Mary Keay died back in 2008.”

“Oh, fantastic,” said Tim. “He met a ghost?”

“Maybe? That’s not even the scariest part. She was murdered, in a-a _really messed up way,_ and her son Gerard was the prime suspect, until the charges dropped because the evidence suddenly became inadmissible somehow.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Tim remarked.

“So, yeah,” Martin shrugged. “The man had a conversation with a woman who’d been dead for nearly five years, in a bookshop that hadn’t existed for just as long, and sold a Leitner to the man who _probably_ murdered her—”

“Allegedly, Martin, come on, we have to be impartial or whatever,” Tim corrected him, sounding a bit too pleased with himself.

“Right, fine, _allegedly,_ ” Martin sighed. “Anyway, the _alleged_ murderer then set the thing on fire before apparently vanishing off the face of the earth, because I can’t find him anywhere.”

“And the other statement?” Tim prompted.

Martin took a deep breath, because truth be told, he didn’t really want to talk about the other statement. “Remember back in 2014, when the police came in about that woman who killed six nurses at Whittington Hospital?”

“Seven,” said Jon.

Martin looked over, startled. “What?”

“Seven nurses were killed. Six by colonization, one by a broken neck trying to escape.”

“Oh God, yeah, I remember that,” said Tim. “She threw up worms on them, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. Well… I think I may have found her in a statement? It’s, uh… this one. It’s, well. The less said about it, the better.” He looked over to Jon again. “I thought you might remember something about these. You transferred to the archives before December 2014, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t take statements from people back then,” Jon informed him. “I just did follow-up research and the occasional errand run.”

“Do you remember statement number… 0140912? Timothy Hodge?”

“Oh, I’m terrible with numbers and names.”

Something about Jon’s glib tone made Martin’s patience boil over for a moment. “It’s the worm sex one, Jon, does that ring any bells?” Tim choked on the air he was breathing.

Sasha poked her head into the room. “Sorry, what was that about worm sex?”

“Oh right, that one,” Jon said, with a grimace of distaste. “What’s there to verify? The man got home from a drunken night out and his flat caught fire. The alcohol accounts for most of his claims.”

“ _Worm sex?_ ” Tim’s voice had risen several octaves.

Martin sighed. “Yes, but a woman also died—”

“If I recall correctly, the police report disproved most of it,” Jon said with a dismissive shrug. “No evidence of arson, nor any sign of human remains.”

“Worm sex _and_ _arson?_ ” Tim whisper-shouted. “Martin, can I read it? Pretty please boss can I read it?”

“Knock yourself out,” Martin sighed, and handed it over. “Look, I still have to follow up, just to have it on record since there’s no actual documentation included, so—”

“I can probably get the police report for you,” Sasha offered. “Once Tim’s done with the statement, of course. I might be able to track down Timothy Hodge, too.” She turned to Jon. “Would you like to contribute to this at all, maybe make it easier, or would you rather stand there and thumb your nose at the rest of us?”

Jon bridled, but grabbed the tea from where Martin had put it down and made to stalk back out of the room. “Fine, I’ll go and look for your—your murderous disappearing goth. _Obviously_ I can’t promise I’ll find anything. Considering what I have to work with, I probably won’t.”

Once both Jon and the tea were out of earshot, Martin let out the breath he’d been holding. That could have gone better. It could have gone worse, of course, but…

“You know what I’ve noticed?” Sasha asked.

Tim paused in reading Timothy Hodge’s statement. “That Jon’s in a shit mood again?”

“Yeah, but also _when_ ,” said Sasha. “He _hates_ it when statements have something genuinely weird in them.”

“Makes sense,” Tim said with a shrug. “It’s extra work. And if the digital recording software craps out on us again, then we also have to break out one of the dinosaur tape recorders, and that’s even more work.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Martin said weakly. “I mean, _I’m_ the one who does that part.”

“Well, either way,” Sasha went on. “Jon’s grumpy all the time, but with the, what, eighty percent of statements that you can write off as another hallucination or lie, it’s a very quiet, contained grumpiness. But then once in a while we get worm sex and evil books and—what’d he say? Murderous disappearing goths? That’s when the claws _really_ come out.” She shot a lopsided grin at Martin. “I think they’re just too much for his skeptic sensibilities to handle. He can’t brush them off as easy and it pisses him off.”

“Okay but he very much did brush them off, just now,” Martin pointed out. “I mean I get where you’re coming from, but he still did do that.”

“Elias should give him a couple shifts in Artifact Storage,” Tim said with a smirk. “Best cure for skepticism I can think of.”

“Ohhh, no.” Sasha shuddered deeply. “Nope. Not even in fun. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone. You didn’t work there, Tim, so you don’t get to joke about it. I was only there a few months, but it got _weird_. Sometimes my coworkers got weird, too. I’ll take grumpy no-fun Jon Sims over what happened with Kenneth. No, I’m not telling you what happened with Kenneth. Pretty sure I had to sign something, and so did the cop that showed up.”

“Keep your secrets,” Tim sighed. “I’ve got all the juicy spooks I need right here.”

“Good reading?” Sasha asked.

“Martin wasn’t kidding about the worm sex…”

As his two assistants chatted, Martin quietly let himself fade back into their peripherals before slipping out of the room. There was other work to be done, and he might as well get to it while Jon was sufficiently distracted.

When he found Jon’s mug, hours later, only about a few sips had been left to get cold.

Progress, right?

* * *

Martin swore quietly at his computer as the recording played back, distorted and corrupted beyond recognition.

He was used to this by now; every statement warranted a test recording to see if the digital file stayed intact. Nine times out of ten, they did. But once in a while… and it had to be _this_ particular statement, didn’t it?

Martin heaved a sigh, somewhere at the midpoint between frustrated and unsettled. He was scowling at the date on the document, at the name and information listed, at the document number—Jon had been kind enough to explain Ms. Robinson’s number system to him, at least—before he finally got up from his chair and grabbed his empty mug. He was going to need tea for this one.

Naturally, when he got back from the break room, the statement had vanished from his desk.

Martin stood there for a moment, tea in hand, tapping his foot in agitation. It was possible, of course, that Tim or Sasha had picked it up by accident, or borrowed it to get a head start on follow-up research. But that wasn’t the case. He knew it wasn’t the case, for the simple reason that the statement hadn’t recorded digitally, and… well.

Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is… either a pattern or enemy action, Martin could never remember.

Either way, this was far from the third time Jon had done something like this.

He took another deep breath to steel himself before walking into the assistants’ shared office space. To his relief, both Sasha and Tim were away from their desks, and a quick glance told him they weren’t coming back down the hall.

“Hey, Jon,” said Martin, voice wobbling in an effort to avoid coming off as accusatory.

“Yes?”

“Have—there was a statement left on my desk, and I was wondering if you’ve seen… where it went?” he asked, looking straight at said statement in Jon’s hands. “Just wondering.”

“You seemed to be having trouble with it.”

“Oh. Well, I wasn’t.” Martin coughed to clear his throat. “Really, I wasn’t. I can record it just fine on tape, you really didn’t have to—and besides, I especially don’t need your help with that one.”

Jon finally looked up. “Oh?”

“Yes. Well. I sort of remember that one?” He tried again. “I mean, I remember that one. Trevor Herbert, he came in back in 2010.” Jon, he remembered, hadn’t joined the institute until 2012, but bringing that up felt a bit like pulling rank, and Martin was the last person who deserved to pull rank on anyone.

“Ah. Well, I can still record it,” Jon said with a shrug. “Follow-up shouldn’t take too long; there’s not much research to be done on the ramblings of a homeless man.”

Martin winced. “You could show a little respect. He passed away after giving his statement.”

“Did he,” Jon said, with what Martin doubted was the appropriate amount of gravity.

“It was sort of the talk of the institute, at the time,” Martin replied. “I’m just saying, maybe a bit of sensitivity is, you know, warranted.”

Jon gave a distracted nod. “I suppose so. I can give you the tape when I’m done with follow-up.”

“Um, okay?” It was abrupt, but it was almost reasonable, that was the problem. It was a reasonable offer—helpful, even—so there was no reason for Martin to feel uneasy about it, in spite of Jon’s usual… Jon-ness. “Okay, that’s fine—thank you, just… could you maybe _not_ take things from my desk? In the future? If I need your help with something, obviously I’ll ask. It’d just, you know, prevent confusion, and… yeah.”

“Fine,” Jon replied, already reaching for a tape recorder. “Did you need anything more from me?”

“No,” Martin replied. “No, I… if I think of anything, I’ll…” His voice trailed off as he backed out of the room again. Jon was already focused on his self-appointed task, and as Martin left the room, he heard the click of the tape recorder turning on.

“ _Statement of Trevor Herbert, regarding…_ ”

Martin returned to his desk with a mug of lukewarm tea, no statement, and a gut full of renewed frustration. There was nowhere else to funnel the energy, so he grabbed the next statement within reach. The digital recording came out flawlessly, and Martin wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more irritated.

It ate at him, like an itch under his skin that no amount of scratching would relieve. There was something he wanted, maybe even needed, but he was at a loss for what it was. Maybe if he could find that missing piece and fit it in place, things would start making sense, but for now he could only stew in the feeling of wrongness. It was a special kind of torture, to desperately want something without knowing what it was, and Martin had been suffering it ever since he took that damned promotion.

Maybe he should quit. Not completely, just ask Elias for his old job back. He’d done well in the library, hadn’t he? Well enough to warrant a promotion in the first place. Maybe he could send an e-mail, request a meeting, see if Elias would be open to the idea. It wouldn’t get him in trouble just to ask. Better to admit defeat and quit while he was ahead than keep digging himself deeper. He’d given this Head Archivist thing a go, and it hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped. He just wasn’t the man for the job. It was a bad work environment all around, and he couldn’t help but feel like the cause of it.

Elias would understand. Of course he would. And even if he didn’t agree, there was no harm in simply opening a discussion about it.

So why was Martin still staring at an empty e-mail draft?

“Martin.”

His fingers jerked, leaving a mishmash of letters in the draft. “W-what? Yes?” He looked up, startled out of his thoughts, to find Jon watching him from the doorway. He glanced at the digital clock on his computer, and swallowed a squeak of surprise when he realized that he had been staring at the blinking cursor for nearly twenty minutes.

“You said you remembered this one,” Jon said, holding up the statement.

“I—yes, I did, which is why I wanted to take care of it—”

“Good.” Jon crossed the room and handed it over without preamble, along with a tape. “You can have that back. It’s recorded, here’s the tape. One problem, though, there’s a mention of items included with the statement and I can’t find them.”

“What do you mean you can’t find them?”

“I mean I’d have thought that if a dying man bequeathed alleged vampire teeth to the institute, someone would have bothered to keep track of them,” Jon said dryly.

Martin sighed, looking over the scant supplemental notes on Trevor Herbert’s statement. “Did you check Artifact Storage?”

Jon was already heading back for the door. “Considering the likelihood that he’d brought in, I don’t know, shark teeth or something, I didn’t think they’d want them cluttering up the haunted books and cursed duvets and what have you.”

“Jon—”

“I mean, you are the one who’s always telling me I take on too many projects,” Jon went on. “And you were insistent earlier, so I thought I’d defer to you on how to proceed. You being the head archivist and all.”

“You’ve never seemed bothered by that before,” Martin muttered, but Jon had already left.

Martin glowered at the gibberish he’d typed into the e-mail for a minute more, then deleted the draft and grabbed the statement before heading to Artifact Storage.

Sonja was in charge of collection management, and she was as pleasant as ever, which wasn’t saying much unless you knew what the people in Artifact Storage had to deal with on a regular basis.

“Yeah, I… don’t think we have those anymore,” she said, paging wearily through inventory records. “We did, though, because they’re on record, but they were checked out, and I can’t find anything on them being checked back in.”

“Checked out?” Martin echoed. “How do you check something out of Artifact Storage?”

“Be police officers, for a start,” Sonja replied. “We’ve still got the documentation, if you want to see it.”

“Sure, I guess. I mean, yes. Thank you.”

Martin read through the forms—he hadn’t even known the institute _had_ forms for this—and tried not to scowl as the full picture formed. Apparently the police had been investigating Trevor Herbert’s activities, though their reasons weren’t clear. Suspicion of murder, probably, considering the man’s activities. They had taken the original statement, which explained why the one he had was clearly a photocopy, along with the teeth Mr. Herbert had given along with it. There were no photographs, just… words. Written records that they had been here, and no longer were.

He took a photocopy of all the documentation, just so the archives could have it. It was disappointing, to say the least; maybe if he’d been able to find the teeth, if they were clearly not the teeth of a shark or a dog or whatever excuse Jon came up with to dismiss them, Martin could at least wag them in his face—

No. That was unkind, and petty, and he really couldn’t afford to antagonize anyone in his team, especially the member who was already predisposed to dislike him. He had a job to do, and he was doing it. It was done. He was fine. Everything was fine.

Just when he was beginning to convince himself of that, he turned a corner on the way back to to the archives and came face to face with Elias.

“Ah, Martin. Everything all right?” The head of the institute regarded him with mild concern. “You look a bit harried.”

“Everything’s—fine, yeah,” Martin replied. “I was just checking something in Artifact Storage.”

Elias blinked. “Artifact Storage? Did Miss Herne bring something in?”

“Who?”

“Miss Herne,” Elias repeated, concern deepening. “The woman who came in to give a statement. I assume you took it? I just saw her leave, and she’d been here about half an hour so I assumed…”

“Oh.” He’d been in Artifact Storage for the last half hour.

“I believe Jon received her when she found her way to the Archives,” Elias went on, still peering at Martin as if trying to work out what was wrong. “Did he not tell you? I was sure I saw him heading to your office.”

And he had been, if Martin understood things correctly. Except Jon hadn’t told him about a woman giving a statement; he’d all but shooed Martin off to Artifact Storage on a wild goose chase for vampire teeth.

Elias must have taken his silence as an answer, because his concern turned to a frown. “Hm. How very irresponsible of him.”

“I… guess he took her statement himself?” Martin said weakly.

“That is supposed to be the job of the Head Archivist, as I’m sure he knows.” Elias hummed thoughtfully, then leveled a severe look at him. “You know, Martin, if you’re having problems with your team, you don’t have to grin and bear it.”

Martin drew in a sharp breath. “No, I—”

“I realize you have a lot on your plate, and that comes with a great deal of pressure,” Elias went on, not unkindly. “Your team is there to lighten your load, not make things more difficult for you, and if Jon is having trouble… _adjusting_ to the changes in the archives, then I’m happy to step in—”

“No, no, it’s _fine_ ,” Martin stammered out. “Really! It’s fine, Elias, if—if I run into anything that I don’t think I can handle on my own, you-you’ll be the first to know. But it’s fine. I can handle this.”

“I can at least have a conversation with him about what is appropriate behavior.”

Yeah, that was just what he needed, after all of this. After taking a promotion Jon deserved, and then being his boss in a department Martin had no business being in charge of, getting him reprimanded by their boss was just the cherry on top.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he said. “Really. I’ll talk to him.”

Elias held his gaze for a moment more, then nodded. “Well, all right then. I’ll leave it in your hands.”

“Thank you.” Martin bit back a sigh of relief, and hurried back to the archives.

Jon was not at his desk, but Sasha was at hers, and she seemed not-busy enough for Martin to feel all right asking if she’d seen him.

“You just missed him,” she answered, with a sympathetic smile. “He was just here a minute ago. Shoved a couple of papers into his desk drawer and took off. He didn’t say where. Did you need help with something?”

“Ah, no, I wanted to talk to him specifically,” Martin said absently, eyeing Jon’s desk. Suddenly his fingers itched with the not-quite-appropriate urge to open the desk drawers and find what papers Sasha was talking about. He wouldn’t, obviously he wouldn’t, especially with Sasha right there, but he _wanted_ to. “It—it can wait. Thanks, Sasha.”

“No problem, boss.”

Martin winced as he left. She meant it in fun, just as Tim did, but he still balked at the title.

He stopped to file away Trevor Herbert’s statement and the attached documentation. Thus far, their chosen method of organization was numerical, which was also chronological given Ms. Robinson’s numbering system. Martin tucked it into a box set aside for 2010 paper files, and returned to his office. Hopefully Jon would be back soon, and then he could try and broach the subject of, well…

God, where to even start?

His desk phone rang, and he picked it up automatically. “This is Martin down in the archives.”

“ _Hi, Martin, it’s Rosie. I’ve got a woman on Line 3 who wants to speak with the head archivist. I can have her leave a message if you’d like?_ ”

“Oh, ah, no, I can talk to her,” Martin replied. “Go ahead and put her through.” A moment later he heard the click of the line opening. “Hi, this is Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist of the Magnus—”

“ _Yeah, hi, fantastic,_ ” a young woman snapped into his ear. “ _Look, I don’t know what kind of place you think you’re running, but this is unacceptable and I—I won’t stand for it._ ”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“ _You should be!_ ” To his alarm, the woman’s voice broke. “ _If this is how you treat everyone who comes to you_ _i_ _-_ _i_ _n good faith, then_ _it’s no wonder people treat you like a joke_ _!_ ”

“Miss, please, just—just start from the beginning, and I’ll do my best to—”

“ _Oh,_ now _you want to hear me talk! Great! Where were you—what, forty minutes ago, when—_ ” She cut herself off abruptly. Martin heard her take a shaky, steadying breath. “ _Look, I just—_ _I came in today, to make a statement, and the reception I got was…_ _god-a_ _wful._ ”

Martin’s heart sank. “I—are you… Naomi Herne?”

“ _That’s me,_ ” she said bitterly.

“Please, tell me what happened and I’ll do everything I can to address this.”

There was another deep breath over the line. “ _I-I don’t know what your policies are,_ ” Naomi said. “ _But I—look, I came in, in sort of a bad place, I just lost my fiance and… and then something happened and I didn’t know what else to do with it. I thought maybe I could just, just tell my story, and get it off my chest, and maybe it would be, I don’t know, cathartic? The point is, I was in a vulnerable place, and_ _the man I talked to_ really _didn’t help. I can’t remember if he told me his name. Dark hair, glasses, little scar on his eyebrow?_ ”

Martin sighed. “Right, I know who you’re talking about.”

“ _I was just trying to explain myself, and he_ _wouldn’t give me two seconds_ _!_ ” Naomi went on angrily. “ _I came in to talk to someone_ _about what happened to me_ _,_ _and he treated the whole thing like a waste of his time! Just tossed some papers at me,_ _told me to write it down_ _, left me alone in a drafty basement_ _room_ _for almost a half hour, then took them back and told me to piss off!_ ”

“He did _what_ —”

“ _I mean—_ ” Naomi huffed. “ _All right, well not in so many words. He said ‘thank you for your time, we’ll call you if we need anything,’ but with the tone he took it was pretty clear what he meant._ ”

“I see,” Martin said.

“ _I wasn’t going to say anything,_ ” she said. “ _But someone’s got to. I mean, come on! The whole point of your stupid institute is to take statements about—about the supernatural, so if this is how you deal with people who—who are scared, or vulnerable, or—_ ”

“I promise you, it’s not,” Martin informed her. “I am so sorry about this, and I promise I’ll—I’ll be having a conversation with him about this, and in the meantime I can give you a number to lodge a formal complaint.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” she said, a bit sullenly, and stayed on the line just long enough to take the number. As soon as she hung up, Martin was out of his seat and taking to the hallways.

It must have been luck that led him to Jon so quickly; Martin picked a direction at random and found him almost immediately, digging through a document box behind several rows of archive shelves.

“I need to talk to you,” Martin said. “Right now. Privately.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else here, so what’s stopping you?”

“There! That! That’s exactly what we need to talk about!” Martin hesitated, struggling to keep his frustration under control. Blowing up wouldn’t be useful. “Look, I just got off the phone with Naomi Herne.”

“Ah. Did she have further comments for her statement?”

Martin’s hands curled briefly into fists. “No. She was calling to lodge a complaint. About you.”

Jon paused over the box. “I… see.”

“No, Jon, I don’t think you do.” Martin took a deep breath. “Look. I know things have been… weird, ever since I-I took over as head archivist, _believe me,_ I get how weird it is—”

“Do you.”

“Yeah! I do! But… Jon, I swear to you I’m just trying to do the job that Elias dropped in my lap, and I’ve spent all this time just trying not to step on your toes, and I just—I can’t work like this.” Jon’s focus was still on the document box, so Martin flipped the lid and closed it over his fingers. It was cardboard, and too blunt and smooth to hurt, but it finally got Jon’s attention. “You should’ve told me someone came in to give a statement. Taking statements is literally in my job description, Jon.”

He could tell by the shifting in Jon’s jawline that he was grinding his teeth. “You were busy.”

“Yeah, because you shooed me off to Artifact Storage—which I’m _sure_ was just a coincidence,” Martin retorted, unable to keep the bite out of his tone.

“I’m familiar with the process of taking statements,” Jon said simply. “You aren’t.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to _learn_ that process if you chase me out of the archives whenever I get a chance?” Martin paused. “And speaking of that process, Naomi Herne had a lot to say about yours.” He didn’t miss Jon rolling his eyes. “Come on, Jon! Whether you believe them or not, you can’t just treat people like that!”

Jon pushed the document box out of Martin’s reach and took the lid back off, though he didn’t resume digging through it. “She came in to give a statement. I took it. I don’t know if you read the job description before you accepted Elias’s offer, but bedside manner is _not_ in it.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t a good practice,” Martin argued. “It’s about just, being _decent_ to people. She was upset and scared, and you didn’t have to brush her off like that.”

“Everyone’s upset and scared when they give a statement,” Jon said flatly. “And when a good ninety percent of them end up telling stories with holes you could drive a truck through, well. I’ve found it’s better to get things over with.”

Martin’s arms crept up to cross over his chest. “That’s the most cynical thing I’ve ever heard you say, and _that’s_ saying something.”

Jon looked away. “Always happy to exceed expectations.”

Martin hesitated, shifting uncomfortably at the phantom chill that crept deep into the center of his chest. “I really hope I don’t end up like you. Just, dismissing everyone out of hand.”

If Jon was bothered by this, he barely showed it. “Well in my experience, most, if not all encounters are easily disproven given any amount of effort.”

“Even mine?” Martin asked.

Jon went still, but he didn’t answer.

Martin let the silence stretch a bit longer, before he finally dropped his hands to his sides and sighed again. “Just—don’t do it again. I honestly, genuinely, and sincerely don’t want to bring Elias into this—”

Jon’s head jerked upward. “You don’t need to bring Elias into this.”

“ _Prove_ it,” Martin gritted out, then turned and left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, Naomi Herne’s written statement was on his desk.


	3. Privacy Policy

_“_ _I don’t have much time. I got a box this morning, a few hours before I came here. It was a tongue.”_

Martin sat back and had to catch his breath for a moment before he could finally say, “Statement ends.” He shut the tape recorder off, glad that there was no way for an audio recording to betray that he was grimacing. Only when the quiet whir had gone silent did he allow himself a full-body shudder.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” Tim remarked from the doorway.

“ _Tim—_ ” Martin startled, nearly knocking the papers on his desk to the floor. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Since he stabbed the guy to death.” Tim gave him an odd look, half amused and half worried. “Did you seriously not even notice I was here?”

“I… well, I just sort of…”

“Got stuck in the zone?” Tim finished for him.

“S-something like that,” Martin sighed. “I wish I didn’t.”

“Ahh, don’t say that.” Tim came forward to place a few documents on his desk. “You read pretty well, you know? Very engaging. Ever tried doing proper monologues before? Maybe some slam poetry?”

Martin tried not to choke on the air he was breathing. “Wh—no! Nothing like that.”

“Shame. You’d be good at it. Anyway, I’ve been looking into what happened to this Lee Rentoul guy, like you asked.”

“Right. Uh, any luck?”

“Not much.” Tim shrugged. “Tracked down his landlord, though. Says he just vanished in April 2011, stopped paying bills. And he didn’t have a forwarding address, so there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Though…”

“Oh dear,” Martin muttered.

“Apparently, when he checked the apartment, there was no furniture or anything in it,” Tim said “Just hundreds of small cardboard boxes.” He let that hang in the air for all of four seconds before waving his fingers vaguely with a soft “ _Ooh-ooh-ooh_ ” noise.

“Right, obviously,” Martin sighed. “Don’t know why I expected any different.”

“Yeah, that seems to be what happens with stuff like this.” Tim dragged a chair closer with his foot and plunked himself down in it. “I was hoping for some nice little detail to wag in Jon’s face, maybe shut him up for a while. Or at least see what bullshit ‘rational’ explanation he comes up with.”

“Tim,” Martin said in disapproval.

“What? You’ve got to admit, it’s downright funny sometimes. You know, he’s a twig and he’d probably snap his wrists if he did one push-up, but when it comes to _mental_ gymnastics…”

“I know he isn’t pleasant,” Martin admitted. “But, you know, he gets a lot of work done?”

“Not like anyone asks him to!” Tim said, swiping a hand in irritation. “He only gets so much done because he doesn’t let anyone else do it! You just sit there, doing your work, minding your own business, and he’ll swoop in and tell you you’re doing it wrong and to just let _him_ do it—”

“It’s a big adjustment for him,” Martin pointed out in a small voice.

“It’s officially been months,” Tim said flatly. “That’s not an excuse anymore. The rest of us have adjusted, and it’s high time he joined us.”

Martin opened his mouth to offer to talk to him, then closed it again. Talking to Jon wouldn’t do much good; it never did. It only served to make Jon more irritated with him. “Well, you’re not wrong,” he said. “Anyway, where did you even find this one?”

“In one of many, many boxes in the other room,” Tim replied. “Tucked in between ‘Summoned the ghost of Margaret Thatcher at a slumber party,’ and ‘Government controls my brain through GMOs.’ I figured this one would be a bit more interesting.”

“That’s one word for it.” Martin’s stomach gave another uncomfortable lurch. “Speaking of GMOs, I’m glad I wasn’t eating anything before I read it.”

“Lucky you,” Tim said, utterly unsympathetic. “Anyway, I’ve found out about as much as I can about Rentoul. Sasha’s chasing down police and hospital records, so I thought I’d see if I could find this Angela lady.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Martin asked.

“Nope! But we might as well do our due diligence. You know, since this story has too many odd bits in it to toss out along with ghost Maggie and mind control drugs in our food.”

“That’s… true.” After all, it hadn’t recorded digitally. And Martin’s qualifications might be bunk, but you didn’t need a degree in parapsychology to catch the obvious pattern forming.

“I wonder how much stuff you can lose before you stop being a person,” Tim remarked.

“ _What_.”

“You know, with the whole losing bits of yourself thing.” Tim waved a hand vaguely. “Rentoul was losing fingers and toes and eyes and teeth and stuff. Little things. But the statement doesn’t get farther than that. You know… limbs. Kind of makes you wonder how far it went. Did he wind up as just a torso and head? How much did he lose before he just, you know, _wasn’t_ anymore?”

“I’d honestly rather not think about that.”

“Yeah, that question sounded a lot more reasonable in my head.” Tim turned on his heel and walked out again. “Anyway, I’m gonna go find some phone books for the Bexley area and pick out all the Angelas. Back in a bit, boss!”

“Tim you really don’t have to call me…” Martin’s voice trailed off. “…boss…” Tim was already gone. “Alright then.”

Sasha came in within an hour of Tim leaving, triumphantly bearing a folder of hospital records. More of the picture formed as they went over it together, comparing it to the supplemental notes on the statement.

“That’s weird,” Martin said, flipping one page to check the back.

“What?”

“The notes on this statement just sort of cut off. I think there might be pages missing.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sasha replied. “We’ve all seen the state of the archives.”

“True.” Martin huffed quietly. “Makes it harder to figure out what exactly happened.”

“I can sort of make out the broad strokes,” Sasha mused. “Rentoul got agitated and attacked the assistant taking his statement… only lists the initials. M.S., d’you remember them?”

“M.S., M.S.…” Martin wracked his brain. “No. I never saw much of Archives staff. Which is maybe a bit weird, since I worked in the library, but… I _might_ remember this happening, though? Vaguely? Someone calling an ambulance for a visitor?”

“Well let’s be real, an ambulance getting called to the institute isn’t exactly a momentous occasion,” Sasha pointed out. “Anyway, hospital records are a bit vague, too. A lot of the information’s blacked out.” She pulled a face. “Man definitely lost his tongue, though, that’s for sure.”

Martin swallowed the wave of nausea that followed. “Great.”

“You alright?” At the odd tone in Sasha’s voice, he glanced up to find her looking at him with concern.

“I—yeah, fine. Why?”

“You just look a little…” Sasha wiggled her hand vaguely. “Peaky?”

“Well I—”

He was cut off by footsteps in the hallway, then coming through the door, and it was purely on instinct that he went tight-lipped and silent. It wasn’t Tim; Tim’s footsteps were loud, unapologetic stomps that dragged on the ground and probably wore his shoes out faster, and Tim could be a lot sometimes, but he was comfortable to be around. The sound of quick, light-footed padding, on the other hand, just made Martin brace himself for the lingering threat of confrontation that followed Jon like a shadow.

Sasha’s eyes were on him, but that was something Martin could tolerate. Sasha at least watched him with worry, not with irritated probing.

“Anyway, this is still more than we had before,” Martin went on, his voice quieter than before. Jon seemed absorbed in the work waiting at his own desk, but he was still within earshot. “If Tim manages to find any information on this Angela woman then we can add it to the supplemental notes.”

“Well, like you said, some of it’s missing,” Sasha pointed out. “We may still find it.”

At that moment, Martin saw Jon shift suddenly out of the corner of his eye. He looked over to see Jon staring at the door, and followed his gaze just as Elias stepped into the room with a quiet knock. The door was already open, so the knock was more out of politeness than any real need.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said Elias. “Oh, hello, Tim.”

“Er, hi.” Tim sidled past him, a phone directory tucked under one arm.

“Just thought I’d check in,” Elias went on. “It’s been a few months now, and I hope you’re all settled in?”

The silence lasted a few seconds before Martin remembered that it was probably his job to answer that. “We’re doing okay,” he said. “Statement follow-up, at the moment.”

“Good, good.” Elias nodded. “Well, don’t let me distract you. Though—this isn’t something important, is it? I spotted it lying on the floor in the hallway outside.” He held up a few loose papers. “Seemed as if someone dropped them—there you are, Tim.”

“Right, thanks.” Tim took them from him and carried them along with the phone book to his desk.

“I’ll leave you all to it, then.” With that, Elias slipped out again.

“Weird,” Sasha remarked. “Anyway—hey Tim, can I see those? Just in case they _are_ important?”

“Sure, knock yourself out.”

Martin was halfway through organizing all their information when Sasha sat up straight with a muffled noise of excitement.

“Hey, Elias found the missing pages!”

Martin pushed his work aside. “What? Really?”

“Notes by our friend M.S.,” Sasha said triumphantly. “Name’s still blacked out, though. Hey Jon, this was before your time, but did Gertrude ever mention anybody with the initials M.S.?”

“No,” Jon said, looking oddly rigid as he sat at his desk.

“Ah, well. In any case, looks like M.S. came through for us.” Sasha grinned. “They found Angela.”

Martin paled. “Ah.”

There was a short silence.

Tim stood up. “Well, I lugged this phone book across the institute for nothing. Want to draw straws? I can go grab some stirrers from the breakroom.”

Sasha picked up the papers and waved them in his direction. “Tim, if you want to wander down to Bexley and have tea with a woman who chops people up for a laugh, you’re welcome to it.”

“Wish me luck!” The laughter was still on Tim’s lips when Jon, who Martin hadn’t seen get up from his desk, plucked the papers from Sasha’s outstretched hand.

“No need, I can do it.”

Sasha’s immediate reaction was surprise that quickly faded, but Tim looked properly irritated. “Oh for god’s sake, Jon, really? I said I’d handle it—”

“No _need_ ,” Jon snapped, and was already out the door.

Tim stared after him, frowning. “Prick,” he muttered, then grabbed the telephone book and stormed back out again.

Martin didn’t realize he’d been holding in a breath until he finally let it out. He only meant to loosen up a bit, but ended up slumping over his desk until his forehead almost hit the surface. “One day,” he muttered. “Just _one day_ without this.”

The tense stillness lasted a good few seconds before Sasha brought her hands together sharply enough to shatter it. “Right, you need a break,” she told him. “Let’s go, Martin, it’s lunchtime.”

“Uh, what?”

“Lunch! Now! We’re going!”

“But, I…” Martin stammered for a moment, bewildered. “Okay? Okay, let’s go.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sasha clapped him on the shoulder and steered him toward the door. “Come on, I know this great cafe nearby.”

“Oh, we’re not just going to the canteen, or…?”

“Nope! We’re going out of the institute,” Sasha said cheerfully. “I could use some fresh air.”

“Oh, right, right,” Martin matched her pace, careful not to overtake her by accident. The afternoon was suddenly moving very quickly, and all he could do was get swept along for the ride, even if it took him to a one-on-one lunch with Sasha.

Which should be fun! Just as long as he didn’t give anything away.

* * *

This boy seriously needed to relax. Granted, Sasha didn’t blame him, considering that he was in a position that he was laughably unqualified for, with at least two underlings who _were_ qualified for it, and a boss like Elias breathing down his neck the whole way. She couldn’t even reassure him about it without having to admit she’d broken through the institute’s equally laughable digital security to have a peek at his employee file.

Still, she sympathized. It was sort of his own fault for taking the job in the first place, but hey. It could be worse. They could be working under _Jon_.

Sasha let him pay when they got to the register with pastries and sandwiches, because he already looked frazzled and desperate to do something nice for her, and if she insisted on buying him lunch then he might just combust right there in front of everyone. If it made him feel better, then she wasn’t about to turn down a free lunch.

Thankfully, Martin did finally settle down once he got some tea and a few bites of sandwich down. Maybe, like Sasha, he was glad to be away from the institute and out from under the uncanny weight of someone’s scrutiny. She wasn’t sure if there was a tactful way to ask.

“Today’s been a day, hasn’t it?” she said instead.

“Seems like it always is,” Martin replied with a nervous little laugh. “Just hope I’m not adding to the stress.”

“Nah, you’re lovely,” Sasha assured him. It wasn’t a lie. He was objectively fantastic to work with, even if he didn’t quite know his way around a high-tier academic job. If he were her coworker instead of her boss, it would be perfect. “Jon does that enough for the rest of us put together.”

Martin winced. “Yeah…”

“Hopefully that bit of research on Angela will keep him busy.”

“As long as it doesn’t get him chopped up,” Martin muttered.

“Well, it’ll be his own fault if it does,” she said dryly. “Tim would’ve been happy following up on that, but _nooo_ …”

Martin fidgeted with his sandwich—she must have hit his limit for unkind remarks about people who weren’t present. “I think he’s still upset about Gertrude being gone.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked. “Did you ever meet her?”

“I almost worked for her after I transferred from Artifact Storage, but I wound up in research instead. But I did meet her a couple of times, when projects led me down to check the archives. You?”

“Not really,” Martin mumbled. “Nothing more than small talk. She seemed sweet enough.”

Sasha snorted at that. Gertrude Robinson, sweet. Gertrude Robinson was like a bullwhip crack in the shape of a person. “Not what I saw of her.”

“Oh?” Martin blinked at her with sudden curiosity. “What was she like, then?”

Sasha considered the question for a moment. “Stone cold bitch.”

Instead of spluttering his disapproval or fretting over being unkind, Martin choked on a startled laugh. “ _Oh._ ”

Satisfied, Sasha grinned at him. “Probably why Jon got on with her, now I think of it.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

They continued in silence. Sasha was about halfway done with her sandwich before Martin spoke again.

“So… you’ve worked in archives before? I-in general, I mean.”

“Yeah. Got a library science degree and everything.” Sasha paused, eyeing Martin’s expression. “Been working in academia since I was twenty-one.”

“Ah.” Gauging his reaction was easy enough. He looked guilty as hell. She considered tossing it out that she had applied for the Head Archivist vacancy herself, but decided against it. The last thing she wanted to do was drive him to tears. “So anyway, how’s recording going? With how much talking you have to do, I guess all that tea’s finally useful.”

“Oh, er, yeah, it is!” Martin leapt upon the new topic the way someone might dive from a sinking ship to a lifeboat. “Useful, I mean. And recording is… fine. It’s fine. I-I mean it’s a lot, but it’s fine.”

That gave her pause. “That’s three fines in a row,” she said, with the lightest teasing she could physically manage. “You know, Martin, I’m willing to bet money that it’s not _actually_ fine.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Martin muttered over his chocolate croissant.

“You know, if you need help—”

“N-no, that’s alright! You all are doing so much already—”

“I mean we could balance it out a bit more, that’s all,” Sasha explained. “Split up recording and follow-up more evenly among us, you know? Give your voice a rest. Plus it might do you good to get out of the Institute from time to time?” She paused. “Not that you’re _nearly_ as bad as Jon when it comes to working late, but to be honest, Martin, half the reason I dragged you out here in the first place was that _you_ looked like you needed some air.”

“Oh. Well… thank you for that.” He fidgeted with his paper napkin, took a deep breath, and seemed to settle. “And as for the recording, it’s… it’s sort of hard to explain?” Sasha offered a sympathetic hum. “It’s just, I’ve always been sort of… hm.” He pursed his lips, wincing. “Bit of a bleeding-heart?”

“ _No_ ,” Sasha said. “You? I’d never have guessed.”

That got another laugh out of him, albeit a sheepish one. “Yeah, I know, it’s just… I feel things a lot, you know? Even—especially with other people. I’ve always been really bad with secondhand embarrassment, that kind of thing.”

“Ah, high empathy,” Sasha said, nodding.

“Something like that. And sometimes, when I read statements, it gets… _really_ bad. It’s like I’m _there_ , you know? And, considering what a lot of the statements are about…”

“Ohh.” Sasha winced in sympathy. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be a problem.”

“Well it makes reading about a man slowly getting chopped up a bit…” He let it trail off there.

“God.” Sasha shook her head. “You know, personally I don’t know why Elias is so insistent on it anyway.”

“On… what?”

“Recording statements,” said Sasha. “At least, the way we do it.”

“Well the computer doesn’t always work, so…”

“No, I mean making audio recordings at all.” Sasha leaned forward, though not before glancing around instinctively. She wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t as if anyone else in the cafe was interested in their work talk. “It just doesn’t make sense, from a preservation standpoint, you know?”

“Right,” Martin said, in a passable imitation of someone who did indeed know.

“Audio recordings only really make sense if it’s from a direct source,” Sasha went on. “If the original record is audio. And they’re not, they’re _written_ statements. If we’re going to preserve paper files then it makes so much more sense to scan and digitize them, not arbitrarily convert them to a different medium altogether.”

“O-oh. Well…” Martin hesitated. “Hm. I wonder if some of them would still get corrupted.”

“Then convert them to microform!” Sasha sighed. “Sorry. I know this is the way Elias insists on, it’s just… it’s completely nonsensical if you know the first thing about archival preservation.”

“I just didn’t want to fight him on it, to be honest,” Martin admitted.

And that was when it clicked. “Oh that’s why…”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Sasha replied. She could see the logic behind it, as twisted as it was; if the person in charge of the archives didn’t know anything about managing archives, then it was easier to get them to do whatever you wanted them to, proper praxis be damned. It felt a bit better, to think that her gender hadn’t undermined her qualifications like Tim suspected, but that her qualifications themselves had cost her the job. Still unfair, still petty on Elias’s part, but… well, but nothing. “Probably for the best. Elias might not take kindly to someone mucking up his system.”

“Then why didn’t he pick Jon instead?” Martin asked. The words were barely out of his mouth when his eyes widened with instant regret.

Sasha opened her mouth to reply, maybe to reassure him, then closed it again. She thought about it for a moment, really thought about it. “That’s… actually a really good point,” she said carefully. Martin looked at her, alarm fading to careful blankness. “I mean, Jon has a very clear idea of how he wants things done, and from what I can tell, it’s pretty in line with how Elias seems to want them done.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asked. “You saw Jon earlier, when Elias showed up. He looked ready to throw a punch.”

Sasha snorted. “Can you imagine? Those twiggy little arms?”

“Not the point,” Martin huffed. “I’m just saying they butt heads a lot.”

“Yeah, over _us_ ,” Sasha pointed out. “Not over how the archives are actually organized. As far as I know, Jon’s whole beef with Elias is that he didn’t get to be Head Archivist, but he’s got no problem with following along with Elias’s weird preservation methods.”

“I feel like Jon mainly just wants to do what Gertrude was doing,” Martin said slowly. “Which he knows better than me, and never lets me forget it, so…”

Sasha raised an eyebrow at him. “You know, Martin, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you regretted taking the job.”

He was quiet for a while, staring down at his half-finished lunch. Eventually, he said, “You know, I sort of do? It’s not that I—I mean, I can do the work. But it’s a learning curve, and it took a lot of adjustment, and I like to _think_ I’ve been learning, or at least I’m not as lost as I was when I started out. But when Jon’s around I always feel like I’m doing _something_ wrong.” He paused for breath. “I thought for sure he’d get the job, when I heard about Gertrude. I wish he did. Or I wish I hadn’t said yes. At least then he wouldn’t hate me so much. And I _know_ ,” he added. “I know I shouldn’t care about what he thinks, but it’s not like he makes it easy to ignore. It’s just… he doesn’t like me, and I don’t know how to fix it, and it’s just not a nice feeling.”

Sasha carefully absorbed all of this, letting the silence stretch in case he had more to say. When she was sure he didn’t, she asked, “Why stick with it, then?”

“Ohhh, you know.” He twisted the napkin in his hands again. “Came with a raise and benefits, and when I was talking to Elias, I just… it was so hard to turn down. And now it feels like I… might not get my old job back? If I try to quit? And I really, _really_ can’t afford to quit. I’ve got—I just can’t.”

Sasha took in the look on his face as he spoke, and found herself wishing she’d fought him more on paying for lunch.

* * *

Jon was gone for the rest of the day. Sasha stayed late, far later than she would have been willing to otherwise, because if there was one thing she knew about Jon, it was that he would be back.

Between Martin’s promotion and Elias’s infrequent but memorable visits to the archives, Jon’s power was limited. But he _did_ have the power to make sure no one else was ever the first to arrive or the last to leave. It was a power he exercised every day, and today Sasha was determined to take advantage of it.

Nearly two hours after she said goodbye to Tim and Martin, two and a half completed reports past when she would have called it a day and left, Jon finally returned.

He was quiet. She didn’t hear him come in. If she hadn’t been waiting for him specifically, she might have missed him entirely. But as it was, she spotted him in his peripherals as he passed by the open door and froze at the sight of her. Sasha kept her eyes on her computer screen, and Jon simply watched her as if trying to discern whether or not she’d seen him.

“We need to talk,” she said, without looking up.

“You’re working awfully late,” he replied.

“Pot, kettle.” She raised her eyes to him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Following a lead.”

“You left before lunch,” she said. “It’s been almost eight hours.”

“Following several leads.”

“Awfully dedicated for someone who doesn’t believe in any of this.”

“I thought I might as well do my due diligence, so that no one could accuse me of letting my skepticism affect the quality of my work.” God, she hated when he took that tone. She knew guys like that in uni, who put on airs, who pushed their RP accents to capacity and acted like it translated to brains. She’d thrown more than one punch over it, and right now Jon was _really_ asking for it.

“You’re a real prick, you know that?”

If that stung him, he didn’t show it. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m sure you have.”

As Sasha pushed back from her desk and stood up, Jon finally stepped into the office. A whiff of cigarette smoke reached her, strong enough to make her wrinkle her nose. He smelled like he’d smoked the whole pack on his way in.

She put that aside. “Look,” she said curtly. “I know you’re pissed off about Elias making Martin the new head archivist instead of you—”

Jon’s eyes flashed with muted anger. “Oh you _know,_ do you.”

“Yeah, Jon, you’ve been bitching loud enough that I’m pretty sure the Usher Foundation staff know,” Sasha snapped. “And I get it, alright? That wasn’t very fair of Elias. But it’s not fair of _you_ to take it out on Martin.”

“I’m _not_ —” Jon cut himself off. “What brought this on, anyway? You know just as well as I do that he wasn’t qualified for this.”

“Oh, and _you_ are?”

“I was already working here—”

“For one year, with a background in research, yes I know,” Sasha said flatly. “And you know what? Fine, great, sure, you’re more qualified than he is. But of the two people in this room right now, only one has a library science degree and ten years in academia, and it sure as hell isn’t _you_. The difference is, you don’t see _me_ making an ass out of myself over it.” Jon made a noise that sounded too close to scorn to be anything else, and Sasha felt her temper spike. “There you go again! You’re always like this—whenever any of us try to be helpful or make the best of this, you’re there treating us all with contempt! What is your problem?”

“My _problem?_ ” Jon snapped.

“With me, with Tim, with Martin especially—”

“He doesn’t deserve this,” Jon gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Jon, what did I just say—”

“ _None of you_ deserve this.”

Her frustration threatened to boil over again, but Sasha bit down hard on it. “Well I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said coldly. She poured it all into a glare, and rode the feeling of vicious satisfaction when Jon looked away first. “And you know what? I’m even sorry you got snubbed. I’m sorry you went up against office politics and lost. I get it. It sucks. But at this point you can either suck it up and keep trying, or _leave_.”

The noise that Jon made could hardly qualify as a laugh, but Sasha wasn’t sure how else to catalog it. To her ears it sounded bitter and sneering, which matched the look in his eyes as he swept past her to his own desk.

“Well,” he bit out. “You’re _half_ right.”

The cigarette reek hit her again, and Sasha swallowed the urge to cough. Jon didn’t stay in the room very long, thankfully, and he at least took the smell with him when he left. It still took a little while to dissipate after he was gone, but Sasha could swear she could smell smoke beneath it. Not cigarettes, but regular wood smoke.

It was odd, but not nearly odd enough to stay in her mind. And so, when she went home that night and the news played a brief report of a flat catching fire in Bexley, she didn’t make the connection.

* * *

Jon was quiet today.

It took a moment for Martin to realize it, because absence could be a difficult change to notice. And besides that, quiet did not necessarily mean pleasant. Perhaps that was why it took so long for Martin to see it; Jon was no happier today than he was any other. And with work and Tim’s energy taking up enough of his attention to distract from Jon’s sullen silence, it wasn’t until Martin approached him that he noticed anything amiss.

Usually, asking Jon to do things felt like anything from pulling teeth to stepping into a minefield. But now, when Martin approached with a question about Jon’s last follow-up report, Jon simply gave a terse nod and answered it. No more, no less. Not the friendliest interaction, but without Jon’s glare fixing him in place the whole time, it came out more easily than conversations with Jon ever had before. (For a given definition of “conversation.”)

Oh, and he was avoiding Sasha. That one was easier to work out on his own, because their desks were next to each other and Jon had avoidance tactics down to a science.

“Dunno,” Sasha said blithely when asked about it. “Maybe he’s intimidated by my superior intelligence.”

“Tell the truth, Sasha,” Tim chimed in, mock-scolding her. “Did you beat him up after we left last night?”

Martin hesitated, not sure whether that was a joke, before Sasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t project your wishful thinking on me, Tim.”

“Can you blame me if it’s easy to imagine?” Tim asked. “You, Jon, knock-down drag-out brawl in the alley out back…”

“You’re off base, Tim.”

“Am I? I can see you beating him up for his phone and lunch money.”

Martin sighed deeply.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot, can’t offend the boss’s _delicate sensibilities_.”

“Tim, come on,” Sasha chided him. When Martin looked over to shoot her a grateful look, he saw her eyeing Jon’s desk with a contemplative expression.

It was the only warning he got, and unfortunately it wasn’t nearly enough.

He didn’t even see it happen, really. Maybe if he had known ahead of time, he would have looked for it, and he could have nipped it in the bud before it spiraled out of his control. Then again, maybe not. He already knew that Sasha was clever, and it wouldn’t have surprised him to find out she was light-fingered, too.

As it was, there was nothing technically strange about Sasha looking at Jon’s desk. Tim and Sasha whispering was also commonplace and didn’t mean anything, because they were close friends who gossiped from time to time.

And then, a little after lunch, Sasha rolled her chair over to Jon’s desk and badgered him into taking on a bit of her research. It didn’t take much; once she showed him the statement she was looking into (#0140911, statement of Laura Popham, digital recording corrupted) he was plucking the folder out of her hand and stalking out of the room. His quiet footsteps quickly receded into the distance.

"Okay, he's gone," said Tim, and he and Sasha immediately sprang into action. Tim scrambled up from his desk and went to nudge the door closed, not shutting it entirely but leaving a space about as wide as the length of his forearm. Sasha scooted her chair back to her own desk, taking advantage of the nearly-shut door to place herself well out of view from the hallway, and took out her phone.

"Should I be concerned?" Martin asked as Tim returned to Sasha's side.

"Don't worry about it," said Sasha, which only made him worry more.

"I don't—is there a _reason_ you don't want Jon seeing you look at your phone…?" He leaned close enough to spot the color of the phone in Sasha's hand, and the lack of dangling charms.

Martin stood up so fast that he nearly knocked his chair over. "That’s not your—is that _Jon's phone?_ "

"Will you shush?" Tim warned. “If you talk too loud, we won’t hear him come back.”

Martin moved closer, wondering about his chances of snatching it out of Sasha's hand when Tim was also there, in on this. "Sasha you really shouldn't—”

"I'm just looking at his contacts, keep your trousers on."

"How did you even _get into his phone—_ "

"I watched him unlock it and memorized the password, now hush!"

Regrettably, but with the purest intentions, Martin had moved close enough to see the screen. And now that he was there, he found his feet rooted to the spot. He could walk away, distance himself from this, but that wouldn't be right. He had to at least _try_ to get the phone back.

"He's only got three contacts," Sasha announced. "He’s not even got his mum’s number in here. Just Gertrude, someone called ‘Dire Emergencies Only’, and… oh, this one's all emojis."

"Jon knows how to use emojis?" Tim asked, with far more shock than was really warranted. "Is one of them the eggplant?"

"Nope, it's a ghost, a skull, and a cat face," Sasha replied. "I can see what their last conversation was?"

"Absolutely not!" Martin protested. "This is bad enough without—"

"No, Martin's got a point," Tim said. "Last thing I want to see is sexts written by Jonathan Sims. Or, even worse, sexts written _for_ Jonathan Sims."

Martin groaned out loud.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Sasha assured him. “Guess we’ve got to draw the line somewhere…”

"Hey, check his photos,” Tim suggested.

"Oh, so you won't risk sexts but you'll risk nudes?" Sasha laughed at the faces Martin and Tim made, and opened up Jon’s pictures anyway.

Apparently the universe didn’t hate Martin as much as it could have, because there was nothing inappropriate or incriminating in the pictures that Jon had saved to his phone. What was there was… well, a little baffling, to be honest.

“What am I even looking at?” Tim asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Well this one looks like it might be a sunset?” Sasha said uncertainly. “This one’s got a lot of green in it, so maybe a park somewhere. Here’s the corner of a room. And here’s… the sky, I guess?”

Curiosity and confusion overcame Martin’s shame and embarrassment over the situation, at least long enough for him to give the pictures a proper look. They were crap pictures, either blurry, unfocused, off center, not really pictures of anything, or some combination thereof. All told, there were only about ten of them, and they were all like that. “Maybe he took them by accident and never checks his photos?” he suggested.

“Could be,” said Tim.

“Either that or he has _the_ most pretentious avant-garde aesthetic I’ve ever seen,” said Sasha. “Oh hey, here’s a video!”

This one, at least, was easy enough to understand. The video was as inexpertly taken as the pictures, but it was hard to mistake a cat for anything else. It was curled up in someone’s lap, white chest exposed, the phone’s microphone just barely picking up the sound of its purr. A few seconds into the video, a hand crept in to pet its black fur before the video ended.

“Well there’s a bit of normalcy for you,” Tim said, sounding almost disappointed about it. “Even he has cat videos on his phone.”

“Great,” Martin tried again. “So then, mission accomplished? Could you maybe put Jon’s phone back where you found it? Maybe he won’t have noticed it’s gone.”

“Wait wait wait, there’s a separate album saved,” said Sasha. “Aaaand it’s full of cat pictures. Probably. I’m assuming that was the intent here.”

Of a similar quality to the rest of the pictures, Martin noted. Blurry pictures of the cat in motion, one picture of the corner of the cat’s head, even a few that didn’t have the cat in them at all, but were clearly trying to.

“We’re entering the mind of a killer,” Tim said with mock gravity.

“So Jon has a cat and doesn’t know how to work the camera on his phone,” Martin said, a little desperately now. “Can we _please_ stop this before he comes back?”

“Fine, fine,” Sasha sighed.

“Do we _have_ to?” Tim asked, crestfallen.

“…One quick peek at his last conversation with Ghost Skull Cat,” said Sasha.

Two things happened at once: Martin lunged for the phone with a quickness that surprised even himself, and grabbed it out of her hand, just as the door flew open and Jon rushed back in. His wide eyes landed on the phone in Martin’s hand. To Martin, the air in the room might as well have plummeted to sub-zero.

There was really nothing he could say, Martin realized. So he didn’t try to stammer out an explanation, and simply held the phone out to him.

Jon’s nails nearly raked Martin’s hand as he snatched it back. Without another word or glance to any of them, he turned and hurried back out of the room. The worst part was that he didn’t even storm out like he should have, like he deserved. Every tight line of his body screamed fear, not anger.

Martin was angry, and maybe that made up for it, a bit. Especially since he was mostly just angry with himself for not stopping it sooner.

Not that he could have. He’d tried, for whatever that was worth—shouting uselessly from the sidelines while being ignored. And why had he expected any different? Tim and Sasha were friendlier than Jon was, but at the end of the day they had no more respect for him. Maybe if he actually deserved this job, they wouldn’t shrug him off like a joke.

Maybe he should quit, he thought again. He had lost count of how many times it had crossed his mind. Enough to know that he never would.

Sasha and Tim were very carefully not looking at him. He should probably say something, dress them down, tell them it was wrong and they shouldn’t do it again, but what was the point? No one around here listened to anything he said. So why bother trying?

Without a word, he fled to his office. No one followed him.


	4. Office Gossip

Let it not be said that Sasha didn’t know when she’d gone too far.

Jon had been quiet after their conversation before. That had been satisfying, because Jon being quiet meant Jon being less abrasive to Martin. But after he took his phone back, Sasha just… stopped seeing him around the office. She knew he was still there, partly because Elias probably would have said something if he just stopped showing up to work. Besides that, statements would still vanish from Martin’s desk, as well as Tim’s and her own, often when they were still working on them. Follow-up research notes showed up on Martin’s desk, bearing all the signs of Jon’s particular system of organization. Things on Jon’s desk moved around without Tim or Sasha touching them—the guilt was still strong for Sasha, and while she suspected Tim had less reservations, she did get the strong feeling that Jon was watching his things like a hawk now, and Tim felt it too. But Jon never seemed to be at his desk anymore, and the most Sasha ever saw of him was a brief glimpse of his retreating back.

She surprised him in the break room by accident, once. Just once. The sight of him fixing a cup of tea for himself sent a pang through her, because there was a stone-cold mug already sitting on the desk she never saw him use anymore, in the exact spot Martin left it. That was his usual olive branch, and Sasha now found herself staring at a sound rejection of it.

Jon glanced at her briefly, before focusing fully on the mug in front of him. His spine was a single tight line, radiating tension to the rest of his body. It was easily the unfriendliest slouch that Sasha had ever seen on him, and thaat was saying something. It made the guilt curdle in her stomach, but before she could think of something to say, Jon picked up the mug and brushed past her. She let him go without a word—where, she couldn’t be sure. He certainly didn’t go back to the office. It left Martin to retrieve the sad untouched peace-offering mug and pour it out himself, which—right. That wouldn’t do at all. That was her own fault, and the only thing she had a chance in hell of fixing.

She tried staying late again, but he must have caught on to her scheme, because she didn’t see him again. Not to be deterred, she came in early the next morning, and was irritated to find a freshly emptied mug on Jon’s desk—a sure sign that he had gotten there before her—but no Jon.

It took all of three days of trying before she managed to catch him. When it finally happened, she hadn’t even been trying to corner him; she was on her way back from the library when she caught a flutter of movement as Jon ducked into one of the supply storage rooms. Seizing the opportunity, Sasha darted in after him.

“You should know,” she blurted out, and Jon cursed as he dropped the tape recorder he’d been holding.

“What do you _want?_ ” he snapped.

Sasha bit back the retort that bubbled up on instinct. He was angry with her, and he had a right to be angry, she reminded herself. Not everyone was fine with casual violations of personal privacy; Tim was just cool like that.

“I just wanted to tell you,” she replied. “About what happened before.” His hand was straying to his pocket, where she could see the rectangular shape of his phone. “So, you walked in at the tail end of—of what we were doing. I know Martin was the one holding your phone in the end, but only because he was grabbing it away from me, to give back to you. He was pretty much yelling at us to stop going through your phone the whole time, but… well, we didn’t listen, and he was sort of outnumbered. So, you’re mad at me and Tim, and I get that, and you should be, but don’t take it out on Martin, alright?”

Jon didn’t break eye contact as she spoke, though his tightly-wound glare did loosen to mere wariness. “Fine,” he says quietly.

Sasha took a deep breath. “And, I’m sorry for stealing it in the first place. I still think you’re a bit of a prick, but that was going too far.” She almost winced as she said it, because it sounded far more sincere in her head than it did out loud.

Judging by his returning glare, Jon was of the same opinion. “How very gracious of you.”

“Right, yeah.” She took a step back. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Go back to your… whatever the hell you’re doing.” She reached for the door.

“Wait—Sasha.” Jon’s voice was terse, reluctant even as he called out to her.

Sasha paused with her hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”

“On—on my phone. Did you actually… see anything?”

“Not much,” she answered. “Just a very sad contact list, a lot of blurry photos, and one album of blurry cat photos. Which—honestly, was sort of weirdly cute.”

“Did—wh—” That actually sort of flustered him. Sasha didn’t know Jon could get flustered. Tim said he could, but Sasha had never quite believed it. “Just—did you look at any of my text conversations?” he pressed.

Okay, weird question, but—no, actually that was a perfectly fair question, all things considered. “No,” she replied. “Martin grabbed it back before I had the chance.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice was quiet, almost soft with relief. With any luck, that might be enough to push Martin back into his good graces. At least, Sasha hoped so. It was just too sad, seeing him pout over all those rejected tea mugs.

“Yeah,” she said, almost matching his tone. “Anyway, see you later. Or… not.”

It was only when she was nearly back to the assistants’ office that she realized that she didn’t know what Jon was doing in that storage room, fiddling with the spare tape recorder. It was with some frustration that she forced herself to shelve the question. It wasn’t like she would ever get an answer for it anyway.

Not much changed, after that. Jon continued to avoid his desk while the others were there. He spoke maybe twice a day at most. Statements vanished, and sometimes notes would appear.

But Martin’s tea offerings also disappeared, with the mugs eventually returning to the break room, empty.

So that was something, at least.

* * *

It was sort of impossible to say no to Tim’s invitations to drinks. It wasn’t that he was intimidating, or that one feared the consequences of turning him down. But something about the easy smile on his face made the ‘yes’ tumble out of Martin’s mouth as if pulled by gravity. It only seemed right. Why _wouldn’t_ he want to get drinks with Tim?

They were finished with their first round and well into the second when Tim said, “We need to address the elephant in the room,” and Martin thought, _oh that’s why_.

“What elephant?” Sasha asked.

“What elephant?” Tim echoed, looking almost affronted. “How about the short, scrawny elephant that keeps sniping projects from everyone and leaving us the boring stuff?”

“Tim…” Martin sighed.

“The elephant that is _still_ doing this, and in fact did it to me _today_ , except now I can’t even tell him off for it because he’s apparently a ghost now.” Tim scowled. “Seriously, how is he still managing to mess things up without even being in the same room as anyone?”

“Tim, _please_.”

“I mean I guess I _could_ try Martin’s method,” Tim conceded. “Just leave tea out for him, like he’s a little shoe-making elf. D’you think if I catch him in the act, he’ll go away?”

“I’m actually with Martin on this one,” said Sasha. “Is after-work drinks really the time and place for work talk?”

“Sasha, Sasha,” Tim said patiently. “After-work drinks is the time for gossip, and that is _exactly_ what I intend to do.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you’re just bitching about Jon, which you already do with _me_ every chance you get—”

She probably didn’t mean it, but something about the way she said it scored an invisible line in the space between them and Martin. Martin toed it carefully, not sure whether it was the sort of line he ought to risk crossing it. After a moment of consideration, thinking of what Tim was saying and everything that had led up to this, he mentally shrugged his shoulders and thought, _hell with it_.

“No, no wait,” he said, a bit resigned. Their eyes were on him immediately, and he swallowed hard against his own nervousness. “I mean, I might as well hear this. I probably should.”

Sasha looked uncertain. “Martin, it’s okay. Tim’s just—”

“It’s fine,” Martin insisted. “I mean, it’s _not_ fine and that’s the point. It’s clearly not fine and it needs to be addressed, so… I may as well address it. Or try. And if this is what you’d talk about if I weren’t here, then don’t let me stop you.”

“Great!” Tim said cheerfully, as Sasha offered a pinched look. “I mean… I pretty much said it just now. Jon snipes projects like his life depends on it. I thought maybe he’d let up when he started avoiding everyone—I mean, avoiding everyone even more than he already did—but he’s still doing it.”

“It _is_ genuinely kind of a problem,” Sasha admitted. “I mean, I know it probably doesn’t make much of a difference to you since you get the reports either way…” Her voice trailed off as she took in the look on his face. “Unless…”

“Unless…” Tim echoed.

Martin hesitated only for as long as it took him to realize that it didn’t matter anyway; he was already struggling. “No, he plays keep-away with me, too,” he said. “And there was that time with Naomi Herne… he basically sent me out of the office before she arrived and took her statement himself.”

“How has he not gotten fired yet?” Sasha asked, almost awestruck. “Or at least written up? Pulled into Elias’s office?”

“Maybe he has,” said Tim. “There’s got to be a reason he hates Elias so much.”

“He’s also the only one who worked in the archives before the rest of us,” Martin pointed out.

“Like that even matters anymore,” Tim scoffed. “When’s the last time he helped in a way that mattered?”

“I mean, he does still do work,” Martin said hastily. “He’s very good with research reports, when he turns them in…”

“No, I mean, when’s the last time he used the expertise he’s supposed to have?” Tim asked. “He almost never talks to us or explains anything, and when he does, it’s like pulling teeth. Between that and the fact that sometimes I genuinely wonder if he’s actively sabotaging us on purpose, he’s about as helpful as someone who just got hired _yesterday_.” He paused. “Wait a minute, if you’re having problems with him, have you talked to Elias about it?”

“S-sort of? Not as much as I could, but…” Martin hesitated. “Elias knows about what happened with Naomi Herne, at least. And I have threatened to bring Elias into this. That was… actually the first time I saw Jon get defensive. But in the end, it doesn’t seem to have made him stop, so…” Martin sighed. “God, maybe I just… should. Jon looked genuinely rattled when I mentioned that, but…”

“If he didn’t want Elias getting involved, then he should’ve though aboutt that before he decided to be a prick,” Tim grumbled.

“Wait, wait, let’s think about this for a second,” Sasha broke in. “I talked to him before, that time we both stayed late—”

Tim gasped. “Sasha! You said you didn’t!”

“I _said_ I didn’t drag him behind the building and rough him up, Tim,” she retorted. “Anyway—words were said. One thing I said was that if he didn’t like… certain decisions, then he could either suck it up or leave.” Tim barked out a laugh. “And the last thing he said to me before he stormed out was that I was ‘half right’.”

“What’s that mean?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know,” Sasha said with a shrug. “It didn’t really stick in my head at first, but I’ve been thinking about it, and… ‘half right’ implies that he genuinely _can’t_ do one of those things.”

“Well we all know he can’t suck it up,” Tim said dryly.

“Maybe,” Sasha said. “But he also hasn’t left.”

In the silence that followed, Martin finished his second drink, and found himself longing for a third. “Did he say anything else?”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Well he said point-blank that he didn’t think we deserved to be here, so…”

There was no silence this time, for all that Martin was shocked speechless, because Tim forced out a disgusted laugh. “Wow, he really isn’t even sugarcoating it.” He might have sounded almost in awe if he weren’t so obviously angry.

“I just—it doesn’t make any sense to me!” Sasha almost tipped her glass over gesturing. “He’s got no reason to be so… so damn _territorial_ , you know? Everyone keeps saying he was working in the archives for a year before Gertrude disappeared, but that’s rounding up! It was barely nine months!”

“Wait, really?” Martin asked.

She nodded. “He first transferred in July 2014. Gertrude disappeared in the middle of last March. So he didn’t even work here a full year—as an _assistant_ —and he thinks he ought to have the run of the place. It’s ridiculous.”

Tim made a vague noise that sounded mostly noncommittal to Martin, but apparently meant more to Sasha, because she immediately turned to him.

“What?” she asked. “Are you gonna tell me I’m wrong? It was right there in his employee file—”

“The official stuff, yeah,” Tim agreed. “That’s just when he actually transferred departments.”

“Yes? And?”

“Well, he was working for Gertrude before then, right?”

The silence this time was less awkward and more surprised on Tim’s end, confused on Martin’s, and dumbfounded on Sasha’s.

“I thought he was in Research…?” Martin prompted.

“Yeah, we were in Research together, but—huh.” Tim frowned. “Was I the only one who knew about this? How am _I_ the only one who knew about this? Both of you were here years before me.”

“I mostly kept to myself in the library,” Martin admitted. “I didn’t get pulled into gossip much.”

“Also, you were his only friend back then,” Sasha pointed out. “From what I can tell, nobody else really bothered keeping track of him.”

“Huh,” Tim said again. “Well, anyway, yeah. Apparently Gertrude didn’t have any assistants for a while, at least official assistants. Dunno why. Considering how eager Elias was to bring _us_ in, it was probably Gertrude who didn’t want them. Again, no clue why. But I guess since statement follow-up is mostly research anyway, she outsourced it to our department instead. Jon was her go-to researcher.”

“That… _is_ interesting,” Sasha said slowly. “Explains why it didn’t show up in the system.”

“But… why?” Martin asked. “O-okay, getting researchers to help with the workload, that I get, by why only one of them? Why Jon? And—and if she was already having him work for her, then why not just have him transfer to the archives?”

“I did ask him that once,” Tim went on. “He actually looked sort of surprised that I brought it up? Like he didn’t think I should have noticed. Guess he was used to people ignoring him. Which is just a _bit_ sad.”

“Did he answer you?” Martin asked.

Tim pulled a wry face. “Sort of. He said he and Gertrude worked well together. That he liked the work. I even asked him once if he was planning on transferring departments, but he laughed it off.”

“How long?” Sasha asked. “Do you know?”

“Nah.” Tim shook his head. “I started working here in 2013, and he was already running errands for her by then. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Sasha heaved a sigh. “The mystery deepens.”

“At least it explains why he’s so attached to the archives,” Martin said quietly. “Everyone I’ve heard from says he and Gertrude were close.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged her the mentoring type,” Sasha mused.

“Still, two years or more,” Martin murmured. “For all we know he’s been working unofficially in the archives since he started, whenever that was.”

“Since 2011, so four years,” Sasha chimed in. “Again, according to his file.”

“Right,” said Martin.

It took astonishingly long for her words to really sink in, especially since that wasn’t even the first time she’d mentioned it. But maybe he was distracted thinking about how to solve the Jon problem, maybe he was tired from work, maybe he was already buzzed, but either way—

“Sasha…?” he said slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you know what’s in Jon’s employee file?”

The resting smile on Sasha’s face froze. “Um.”

“Busted,” Tim said gleefully.

“I may have peeked, a while ago,” Sasha said carefully. “I mean, it’s all in the system. Pretty easy to access if you know how—the institute’s digital security is a little on the lax side, but—”

“Why, though?” Any hint of a buzz was gone; Martin found himself very abruptly and firmly rooted in the here and now.

“Uhm… curiosity, mostly? And, you know, it’s useful to know the people you’re going to work with…” Her voice trailed off, and they locked eyes across the table.

And in that moment, Martin realized that she knew.

It was entirely possible that he lost a few seconds. Panic was like that; sometimes he just whited out, blinked as fog rolled into his head, and emerged missing small chunks of time. Sasha’s hand was on his, but he couldn’t remember her putting it there.

“Martin,” she was saying, urgently. “Martin, it’s _okay_. I promise. I haven’t…” She broke off, with a split-second glance at Tim. Tim was too busy looking back and forth between them in confusion.

She hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t have told anyone, because if she had, then Martin definitely wouldn’t have a job right now.

He remembered to breathe—just.

“Did I miss something?” Tim asked.

“No,” Sasha said firmly. “You didn’t. Right, Martin?”

She was giving him an out. She knew about him, knew that he had lied his way into a job he didn’t deserve before being pushed into a job that she did, and she was giving him an out. He could crawl back into hiding, stuff his awful festering secret back where it belonged behind his mugs of tea and timidly friendly smiles. He could go on as normal.

“Are you sure?” Tim asked, at the same time as Martin blurted out, “I lied on my CV.”

Fear slammed into him again, awful and instinctive, but there was no use panicking again because it was out, and he had been the one to put it out. Tim had heard, Tim was staring at him with wide eyes, and there was no going back from this.

Maybe he was still buzzed. It was certainly an explanation for why this seemed like a good idea. But mostly he was tired of chewing off his own tongue just to keep from rocking the boat.

“What,” said Tim.

“Are you _sure_?” Sasha asked, though by the look on her face even she knew it was a bit late to be saying that.

“What of it? Archives are already a mess.” Martin shrugged miserably. “So… yeah. Most of the more impressive stuff on my CV is made up. I don’t have a Master’s Degree in parapsychology. I didn’t even go to uni—I… I dropped out of school when I was seventeen.” His voice caught in his throat.

“Damn,” Tim said in a hushed voice. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” He turned to Sasha. “Wait, how’d _you_ figure it out? I know you’ve seen his file, but it’s not like his file _says_ it’s bunk.”

“His qualifications didn’t match up with the date of birth on his driver’s license,” Sasha explained, and Martin winced.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Kind of a dumb move, though,” said Tim. “Taking a promotion you aren’t qualified for when you’re already in a job you aren’t qualified for but are at least _kind of_ good at.”

“Needed the money.”

“For what? Are you in debt to the mob, or…?”

“My mum got sick when I was seventeen,” Martin said dully. “’S why I dropped out, so I could help her. But it’s hard to find work as a dropout—at least, the kind of work that helps you pay for the stuff I need to pay for. So I started lying on my CV. Got hired by the Institute. I’ve been scraping by for years, and when the promotion came up it was a chance to stop scraping and I took it. And… yeah. That’s all.”

He couldn’t look at them yet. But Sasha’s hand was still on his, squeezing gently.

“Well,” she said steadily. “Your mum’s lucky to have you, then.”

He winced.

“And… honestly, all things considered, you haven’t been doing… _too_ bad?”

“Your confidence sucks, though,” Tim broke in. “Guess this explains why.”

“But you’re a lot easier to work with than Jon!” Sasha went on. “And I know that’s a pretty low bar, but it’s still worth mentioning.”

“I’m still sorry,” Martin said miserably. “It already should’ve been you. I mean—Jon’s right about me. I _don’t_ deserve this.”

“Well, that’s not up to him,” Sasha said bluntly. “Besides, I’m honestly angrier with Elias than I am with you. He shouldn’t have put you in a position like that.”

“…Oh.” Martin wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure how to feel about it, or if he believed her.

“And as for Jon… hm.” Sasha pursed her lips. “Much as I’d love to tattle, again I’m not exactly happy with Elias, so I’m not sure I trust him to have everyone’s best interests at heart.”

“He’s our boss, though,” said Tim. “Isn’t that sort of his job?”

“Yeah, but… I dunno. Something about him rubs me the wrong way. Can’t put my finger on it.”

“Well, we’ll put a pin in that one,” Tim conceded. “In the meantime, we can always keep an eye on him ourselves. You know, make sure he’s never alone in the office?”

“He stays late and comes in early,” Sasha reminded him.

“Hide our work in Martin’s office, then?” Tim suggested. “Martin, your desk drawers lock, don’t they?”

“They do,” Martin said. “And I’m pretty sure Jon has a copy of the key.”

Tim thumped the table top. “Damn it.”

“Maybe we could stage an intervention?” Martin suggested. “I mean, so far we’ve been coming at him individually, but maybe if we all confront him at the same time, we’ll have better luck.”

“And that’ll be his last chance to shape up,” Tim said simply. “If not, then we’ll bring Elias into this. Because—yeah I get it, Sasha, and I do agree—but there’s only so much we can deal with ourselves. Frankly, I think we’ve been generous.”

Sasha pulled a face. “Guess that’s true.”

“And how about you, boss?” Tim asked, turning to Martin.

“Really, Tim?” Martin sighed. “Still, with the boss? After I just said—”

“Sorry, boss, you’re stuck with it.”

Martin looked to Sasha for help. She smiled at him, rueful but sympathetic. “Look. It’s not the best situation, but… we can make the best of it, you know?”

“I guess so…”

“At least until we all collectively decide enough is enough and run for the hills,” Sasha went on. “Leave Jon with his precious archives like he wants.”

“Mm.”

Tim’s glass hit the table with a dull thud. “Right, that’s enough of that. Let’s talk about something else. Literally anything else.”

Sasha rolled her eyes at him. “Tim, you were the one that started us on it.”

“And now I’m finishing it! Martin, your thoughts on tax evasion and the possibility of Elias committing it?”

“Wh— _Tim!_ ”

* * *

Their plans for an intervention were foiled by Jon’s day-long vanishing act, which Martin probably should have expected. Jon could be very hard to catch when he put his mind to it. The only glimpse of him that Martin caught was seeing Jon slip out of his office after leaving a prepared statement for him. It recorded digitally just fine, and Martin didn’t even bother with follow-up.

There was one upside to Jon avoiding them, however; it made Sasha’s much more interesting statement discovery considerably easier to tackle.

Not that it didn’t come with its own set of hair-tearing problems, of course.

Martin recorded the statement in his office, and took the finished tape with him to the assistants’ bullpen. Recording statements was the only thing he used his office for now; it was quiet, and far enough from the others to keep from disturbing them. But having his own office had never felt quite right to him, and it felt even less so now that both Sasha and Tim knew the truth about him.

When Martin entered the room, he intercepted Tim on the way out. Tim stopped short at the sight of him. “Oh, I was about to go get you. Bad news on that Vittery statement.”

“What is it now?” Martin asked, dismayed. It hadn’t recorded digitally, which… was that also bad news? It was hard to say. On the one hand, he had long accepted that non-recording statements were the only ones worth looking into. On the other, looking into them could get… complicated.

Martin’s feelings on Statement #0150409, Carlos Vittery, were already mixed.

Well, mostly bad, really. Recording statements never really made him feel good. Vittery was terrified of spiders, terrified of the specific spider that seemed to be stalking him, and every word dripped with that overwhelming fright, trickling down Martin’s open throat as he read them.

Suffice it to say, Carlos Vittery did not like spiders, which clashed with the fact that Martin sort of did. It was a tough spot for his head to be in.

 _Just put it in a cup,_ he’d thought, though for the sake of the recording he hadn’t said it out loud. _Nudge it onto a magazine and put it outside, you don’t have to_ _go out and_ _buy an entirely new animal to get rid of it, you aren’t the little old lady who swallowed a fly—_

“I went through the contact information Vittery left,” said Tim, breaking through Martin’s thoughts. “And I finally got a hold of someone.”

“And?”

“Vittery passed away,” said Tim. “Not long after he gave his statement. He was found dead in his flat.”

“…Great,” Martin murmured.

“I’ve been tracking down more details,” Sasha chimed in from her desk. “His death actually made the news, and get this—”

At that moment Jon walked in, and the three of them fell silent.

Outwardly, Jon appeared to ignore them, but Martin caught him sneaking glances at them. He was listening.

“Anyway,” Tim said, breaking the awkward silence. “It’ll be easy enough to call these addresses, at least confirm that he lived there. If I can’t get more out of them today, then tomorrow I’ll pop round Vittery’s last flat, see if I can’t get his landlord to talk.”

“Did you say Vittery?” Jon asked.

“Oh _piss off,_ Jon,” Tim snapped.

“Tim,” Sasha warned.

But Tim wasn’t about to stop. Apparently intervention time was now. “Look,” Tim said harshly. “We’re all sick and tired of you going around behind our backs, messing up our work, and making paperwork disappear.”

“He’s right,” Martin agreed after a moment’s hesitation. Jon turned to look at him, and he tried not to flinch or look away. “I was grateful at first, because you were contributing so much, but it’s getting out of hand now.”

“Kind of creating a bad work environment, to be honest,” Sasha added. "So it'd be _really great_ if we could all just stick to our own projects, if you don't mind."

“So, yeah, I did say Vittery,” said Tim. “And if I come back and my follow-up research is gone, we’re gonna have problems.”

Jon only met his eyes for a few seconds before looking away. “Fine.”

“Actually—actually, you know what?” Tim went on. “You want this one? Fine. Statement of Carlos Vittery, about the _spider_ stalking him. Sounds right up your alley, Jon. Especially the bit where they found his body wrapped up in webs.”

Jon went rigid at that, except for the slight shudder that Martin just barely caught sight of. “You’ve made your point,” he said stiffly.

“Fantastic. Was that so hard?”

Jon didn’t answer.

“Jon,” said Martin. “We’re _serious_ about this. I know this whole… _under new management_ thing has been hard for you, but it has to stop. We’re all here, and we’ve got to make the best of it.”

“Right,” Jon said quietly. “Understood.” Martin wondered if he meant for it to sound that disingenuous, or if Jon really was that bad at lying.

In any case, Jon must have decided to listen at least a little, because the rest of the day went by without further incident. Tim did what he could over the phone, which wasn’t much, and there wasn’t enough left of the work day to go out and do more. The follow-up report was tentatively finished, barring any extra information Tim could find the following day. Nothing worth noting.

Well, one thing worth noting, Martin supposed. Jon actually left the institute the same time as they did. Curious, but ultimately none of his business.

Early the following morning, Martin woke up to a new text message from a number that his phone didn’t recognize.

 _Good morning,_ the text read. _This is Jon, Tim has my number so you can confirm with him. Unfortunately I_ _’ve come down with something and won’t be in today. Thank you for understanding._

A bit of relief bloomed within him as he read that. Martin tried not to feel too guilty about it. He would never actively wish ill on Jon, but he also had to admit that a few days of Jon’s absence might be a nice break for them all.

Martin got up and went to work, and besides alerting Sasha and Tim to the news, nothing more came of it. Tim swung by Carlos Vittery’s flat that day, had a nice chat with the landlord, and even charmed the man into letting him have a look around the place. There was nothing to find.


	5. Full of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting so long to get to this part.

It was only when Jon’s sickness kept him home past two days that Martin was forced to admit, with no small amount of guilt, that his assistant’s absence was a genuine relief.

Sasha hadn’t been exaggerating about bad work environments. With Jon gone, there was no more pall of inevitable conflict hanging over his head. The feeling of eyes on the back of his head, while still present to some extent, had lessened considerably. Sasha and Tim chatted and relaxed through the day, no longer guarding one another’s work against theft.

Most of all, it was shockingly easy to go through boxes and find more non-recording statements.

There weren’t an awful lot of them. A good eighty to ninety percent of the statements in the archives recorded just fine on the computer. Usually, they found one or two _unique_ statements per week if they were lucky. But then Martin found one on Jon’s first day of absence, then another on his second, and one more on his third. A series of strange garbage bags found at an address in Walthamstow. A man who nailed meat to his flat like wallpaper. There was even a statement about Wilfred Owen, of all things.

They were no easier to record than they ever had been, but at least finding them felt like they were getting somewhere. Where, Martin had no idea. Forward, he hoped.

It was nearly the end of the third day of Jon’s absence. Tim was out of the office, trying to contact people involved in the Woodward statement. Sasha was combing through the archives in search of more promising statements.

Martin was in his office, recording Clarence Berry’s story, and wondering if he could rid his eyelids of the image of the piper if he just blinked hard enough. He stopped the recorder as soon as he was finished, and was halfway out of his chair for another cup of tea when he noticed Sasha hovering in the doorway at last.

He never closed it. Tim ignored the doorway, and Jon probably did too, considering how often he swiped things off Martin’s desk. But Sasha was a touch more polite about it.

“Martin,” she said. Her voice was calm—barely.

“Sasha?’ Martin frowned, trying to decipher the look on her face. It, too, was outwardly calm, but carefully so, as if it took a great deal effort to look that way. “Is… something wrong?”

“Hard to say,” she said. “Well—no. I don’t think so. I, uh. Found something.” She stepped further in, clutching what looked like another statement in her hands.

“What’d you find?”

“D’you remember… it was a while ago,” she said. “There were some statements giving you trouble. And one of them was about that bookseller who found a Leitner, and sold it to…”

“A woman who was supposed to be dead?” Martin finished. “And her son, who… _allegedly_ killed her?”

Sasha nodded, and her eyes lit up intently. “His name was Gerard Keay, right? Long hair, dyed black?”

“I… it was a while ago, but I think so, yeah.”

“Right.” Sasha marched the rest of the way to his desk and slapped a statement down with gusto. “I found him in another one.”

“Really?” Tea forgotten, Martin put his empty mug back down and took it. “February 11, 2012…”

“The actual events were in December 2011,” Sasha informed him. “A couple days of before Christmas.”

“That’s—I’ll have to check, but I think the other one was a year after that,” Martin said.

“Good find, right?” Sasha said with a grin.

“I—yeah, it really is.” Martin didn’t bother holding back his excitement.

“Great!” She put another statement down alongside it. “Here’s _another_ statement with him in it.”

Martin gaped at her.

“I mean, I’m _pretty sure_ it’s him,” Sasha went on blithely. “It’s from 2002, and a goth teenager with a terrible dye job named Gerard shows up in it and grabs a book, so I figured—I mean it might not be, it’s a bit inconsistent on ages, but I can chalk that up to people remembering wrong. Just read it, you’ll see what I mean.”

“Where did you even find these?” Martin asked, dumbfounded. “Did Gertrude keep a Gerard Keay file lying around?”

Sasha stared at him, her smile suddenly stiff on her face.

“…Sasha?” Martin hesitated. “Sasha, I’m serious. Where did you find these?”

“First you have to promise you won’t be mad.”

It was Martin’s turn to stare. A few seconds passed like that, with Sasha looking at Martin and Martin looking back, as if both of them were trying desperately to read each other’s thoughts.

“Sasha,” Martin said as politely as he could. “What does that mean?”

Sasha mumbled something in response.

“I… didn’t catch that.”

“Well, you know, I… might’ve… _broken into—_ ” She broke off mumbling again.

“Broke into what?” Martin asked.

Sasha took a deep breath. “Jon’s desk?”

It took a moment for her answer to really sink in, and once it did, Martin’s heart began a slow descent in his chest. “You… broke into Jon’s desk.”

“Sort of.”

“I thought we agreed that _stealing his phone_ was bad, and uncalled for, and going too far—”

“I mean, is it really his desk?” Sasha pointed out. “It’s not like he owns it, it’s more like the institute’s desk—”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing, Sasha!”

“He was hiding statements in that desk, Martin!”

And Martin couldn’t think of a rebuttal to that. He looked down at the statements in front of him, both of them about Gerard Keay, and then back at Sasha. “How many more?”

“Don’t know yet,” she replied. “These were only in one drawer. And Jon’s got locks on all of them. Do I have your permission to tackle those, too?”

“Um.” Martin hesitated.

“It’s why I came to you with these,” Sasha went on. “I want to see what else is in there, if there are more statements worth looking at. But, I think we both know that I tend to… go too far, when it comes to finding things out about people. And you were trying to stop us, back with the phone, and I didn’t listen when I should have. So I’ll defer to you here. Should I go further?”

Part of Martin wanted to tell her no, put this all behind them, and hope like hell Jon didn’t notice these statements missing from his desk. Nothing good or useful had come from the least time they went poking through Jon’s things.

Except…

These statements weren’t Jon’s, they were the institute’s. They were part of Martin’s job.

They might even be important.

“Let’s read these first,” he said after a while. “Decide if it’s worth it then.”

“Are you gonna record them?” Sasha asked.

“I… I think so, yeah.”

“Start with Harold Silvana’s statement,” she said.

“I mean, I was going to,” Martin told her. “Since it came first, chronologically.”

“Good point. I just meant…” Sasha paused, pursing her lips. “You said that recording was rough on you, before. Silvana’s statement should be easier on you.”

“And Lesere Saraki’s?” he asked.

“There’s… a lot going on,” she said. “Look, just—I already took some notes on them, so I’ll go over those and plan out some research strategies.”

“Right. Thanks, Sasha.” She nodded and turned back toward the door. “And, Sasha?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, for asking,” he said awkwardly. “I mean, just for… you know, coming to me, and stuff.”

She smiled back at him, gentle and reassuring. “Sure.”

She closed the door behind her as she left, leaving Martin alone in the room to load a fresh tape and switch on the recorder.

“Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0020406. Statement of Harold Silvana, given June 4, 2002…”

* * *

As soon as Martin had both statements committed to tape, Sasha declared it lunchtime for all of them. Tim was back in the office and had no qualms getting swept up in Sasha’s paces. As for Martin himself…

“Yeah, you need a break,” Sasha informed him. “Two statements in a row, Martin. You sound like you swallowed sandpaper. We’re getting out of the basement, and we’re going to eat some food while we’re at it. And,” she added when it looked like Martin was about to protest (which he was) “we have some _things to discuss_ , don’t we?”

It took a moment for Martin’s statement-muddled brain to catch up. “Oh. Oh! Right. Yeah, we do.”

He tracked down a copy of Dominic Swain’s statement before he left; Sasha was gathering her research notes to bring along, and it only seemed right to contribute something relevant. As he slipped the copy into a folder to put in his bag, he glanced over and spotted the tape recorder still sitting on his desk. After a moment’s consideration, he brought it with him as well.

The institute canteen was not the place for this kind of discussion, but apparently thedeli four blocks away was. Sasha snagged a corner table and claimed it by spreading her papers on it, while Tim and Martin grabbed food for her as well as themselves. Before long, they were huddled together in the corner, talking quietly over work and food.

“So! Jon’s been hiding secret statements in his desk drawers,” Tim said, almost suspiciously cheery. “That’s fun.”

“Secret statements that don’t record _and_ connect to other statements,” Sasha added.

There was a heavy pause, as all three of them exchanged glances.

“D’you think he knows something we don’t?” Martin asked.

“Maybe,” said Sasha.

Tim shrugged. “Could just be more sabotage. Hiding stuff from you so you’ll look like an idiot and maybe Elias will change his mind, let him have your job. Hell, we all came into the same mess in the archives, didn’t we? I’m just saying, Jon had at least a couple of weeks to himself down here, between Gertrude disappearing and you replacing her. At this point I wouldn’t put it past him to have caused that in the first place.”

Martin stared at his sandwich. It was a sobering thought. “D’you really think he’d do that?” he asked. “You know him better than I do.”

The look that crossed Tim’s face at that moment was difficult to read. “You know, every day I’m less and less sure I do.”

“Well, regardless,” Sasha said, pressing her hands to the table top. “ _If_ that’s true, and I say _if,_ then that means we have an opportunity here. Jon’s not here to snap up projects or sneak around in the background doing god knows what. We’ve now found five non-recorders over the past couple of days. I can only imagine that trend will continue, as long as he’s not here. Shouldn’t we be taking advantage of that?”

“We already have been,” Martin pointed out. “Right now you’re just arguing to keep breaking into Jon’s desk.”

Sasha sobered. “Right. Well… true. But we know _something’s_ in there, don’t we? Probably more statements. I’m willing to bet they’ll be interesting ones. And Jon’s not going to be out sick forever.”

He hated this. Martin really, really hated this. Nothing that Sasha was saying was untrue, but at the same time, the thought of casually violating someone else’s privacy made his stomach turn. It promised trouble in the future, and was that worth getting answers in the short term?

 _Yes,_ something in him decided, and Martin wished that he could argue with it.

“Just statements,” he said at last. “We don’t take anything else we find, just statements. Those belong to the institute, so Jon shouldn’t be hiding them anyway.” Tim looked disgruntled. “We don’t _need_ to snoop on his personal life. We’re just looking for any statements or anything statement-related that he might be keeping, for whatever reason.”

“No, that’s fair,” Sasha agreed. “Tim, wipe that look off your face.”

“Fine, I’ll play nice.” Tim gave an exaggerated sigh. “The things I sacrifice for friendship.”

“It’s settled then,” said Sasha. “We can deal with that when we get back to the institute. For now…” She brought out her notes and places them on the table between them. “We can at least go over what we do know.”

"Right," Tim said eagerly. "Gerard Keay."

"Gerard Keay," Sasha agreed.

"He's shown up in three statements," said Martin, bringing out the Swain copy to join Sasha’s pile of papers. "That's… not nothing."

"No, Martin, it isn't." Sasha sounded amused.

"So then, we’ve all read these, right?" Martin asked. "Tim?"

"I read Sasha's notes," Tim replied. "Which is basically as good as reading them. Are we having a book club discussion now? Is that what this is? Because if so, I have some _thoughts_."

"Ooh good, I'll take notes," Sasha offered.

"Actually, wait a minute," Martin dug through his bag again and pulled out the tape recorder. "We could just… record ourselves? Just for now, we can transcribe it later if we want. But this way you don't have to talk and write at the same time."

Sasha’s eyes lit up. "Ah, good thinking!"

"Should we do a podcast?" Tim asked, and dodged Sasha’s elbow. “Hey! You think I’m joking, but I bet we could find sponsors for it! There’s this mattress company—”

“ _Focus,_ Tim.”

Martin checked that the tape and batteries were in, then started it. "Right. So, what do we know?"

"That there's a goth with a terrible dye job running around London, collecting spooky books," Tim said.

"Or at least there was up until… 2011?" said Sasha. "That was when the Swain statement took place, right?"

"Right," Martin confirmed.

“That’s a bit ominous,” Tim remarked. "You know, just because we haven't found more yet doesn't mean he went off and died."

"How many Leitners have you handled, Tim?" Sasha asked dryly.

"Well, none, but…"

"Look, there's a reason I left Artifact Storage," Sasha told him. "Several reasons, actually. But the main one was that I was pretty sure that if I didn't get out, I'd… something. I'm not sure. Die, or change, or…” She seemed to suppress a shudder. “There's a whole section there just for books, you know. It's not very big, but it's there, and the first thing they tell you in Artifact Storage is not to touch the books."

"Well, then does that make Gerard Keay… good?" Martin asked.

Tim raised an eyebrow at him. "Haven't we been joking this whole time about him murdering his own mother?"

"Did you read the one that had his mother in it?" Sasha asked him. "She gave me the creeps just reading about her."

“I read your notes on the Saraki statement! He straight up murdered a guy in that one!”

“Okay, true,” said Sasha. “But I’m _pretty sure_ the guy was trying to burn down that hospital.”

“I mean… was he?”

“…It was a little unclear,” Sasha admitted. “But he was clearly doing _something_ bad.”

"I'm just saying," Martin spoke up before they could get further off track. "If Leitner books are, are dangerous, or evil or whatever, then it's probably a good thing this Gerard Keay guy is going around burning the things."

"I'll give you that," Sasha said.

"You know what else it means?" Tim said. "He probably knows things about them. His mum—or ghost mum, whatever—she clearly collected the things, right? And Gerard Keay was looking for them all the way back when he was a teenager. So he must know _something_ about them. What they are, where they come from, who the hell Jurgen Leitner even is—he could _know things_. Important things. We've got to find him."

Sasha frowned, her brow furrowing in thought. "We didn't find him when we did follow-up on the Swain statement, did we?"

" _Jon_ didn't find him," Tim said harshly. "He was the one who volunteered to look."

Their table fell silent.

"We've _got_ to get into that desk," Sasha said decisively.

Martin sighed deeply. “I guess we do.”

* * *

Martin was less concerned about the fact that Sasha owned a set of lockpicks, and more concerned about the fact that he wasn’t even surprised.

“For the record,” he said as they stood around Jon’s desk. “I still think this is a bad idea. Not for any specific reason, just in general.”

“Duly noted,” said Tim.

“Is this you vetoing it after all?” Sasha asked, pausing over the lock that she was apparently about to open. “Swinging the big hammer?”

“No,” Martin sighed. “It’s not like you’d listen to me anyway, at this point.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Tim clapped him on the back. “Go on, Sasha, let’s see what he’s hiding.”

“Statements _only_ ,” Martin reminded them.

Within minutes, a promising series of clicks heralded a triumphant noise from Sasha. The lock and drawer opened, revealing…

Office supplies. Not altogether surprising for a desk drawer.

"Bit anticlimactic," Sasha remarked.

"Now don't write it off too fast," Tim warned as he sifted through it. "Maybe there's something buried _underneath_ all the ballpoint pens."

"Guys, it's his stationery drawer," Martin said impatiently. "I have one. You two probably have them. Can we move on?"

"There's no rush, is there," said Tim, reluctantly shutting the drawer again. "Not like Jon is going to walk in and catch us in the act."

"No, but _Elias_ might," Martin reminded him. "You know he sometimes pays the archives unannounced visits."

"Good point," said Sasha as she started on the next drawer. "Keep an eye on the door, will you?"

"Sure, yeah, of course." Martin stepped carefully to the side, far enough that he could see out the door and some distance down the hallway, but not too far to see what Sasha and Tim were up to. Someone had to supervise, after all.

He was looking down the empty hallway when Sasha got the second drawer open. Her triumphant “A-ha!” drew his attention back to her, just in time to see her lifting a small stack of folders out of the drawer and setting it on the desk. Tim was on them in a flash.

“Statements!” he crowed. “Here we go! 0020312, 9991006, 0051701, and… 0121911! Anything else in there, Sash?”

“Nope.” Sasha shut the drawer with a flourish and moved on.

The following drawer was mostly clutter—more office supplies and stationery, as well as a few other odds and ends. The one below that held two more statements, and below that another four.

“Christ, he’s really been holding out on us, hasn’t he,” Tim muttered, paging through them all. “Philip Brown, William Stratton, Carlita Sloane, Sebastian Adekoya—” He stopped, in the middle of putting one statement down. “ _Ah._ ”

Sasha paused over the last drawer. “What?”

Tim opened the folder to slip the statement out. “Did… did either of you know that Jane Prentiss came in to give a statement at some point?”

“Jane Prentiss?” Sasha echoed.

“As in, the woman with the worms?” Martin asked. “She gave a statement?”

“That’s her name on the form.” Tim held it out to Martin, who wasn’t closer than Sasha but also wasn’t busy with lockpicks. Martin took it, and sure enough—

“I might have to do this one next,” Martin said quietly. “…Not looking forward to it, though.”

“May as well take your time.” Tim waved to the growing stack of folders. “You’ve got plenty already.

“Last drawer’s open!” Sasha exclaimed, and pulled it open to rummage through it. “There’s papers, at least, so maybe…?”

“Well?” Tim prompted after her pause lasted long enough. “Any statements?”

“I…” Sasha reached in. Papers rustled as she fished them out. “…don’t think so?”

“Well,” Martin said, a bit testily. “If they aren’t statements then we don’t need to look at them, do we?”

“No no, I know, but I don’t think this is bad?” Sasha spread them out over the desk surface. “Look, see?”

In spite of his misgivings, Martin looked over. Sasha’s find was indeed a stack of papers—not forms, but what looked like a mix of scratch paper and pages torn from unruled notebooks. His first thought was “research notes,” but all it took was one glance to tell him that wasn’t the case.

Tim shrugged. “So Jon’s a doodler. Who’d have thought?”

“Can you really call these doodles?” Sasha spread them further. “I mean, look at them. They’re… honestly, these are really impressive.”

She was right, Martin had to admit. Each page was covered in sketches, some in ink and others in pencil. The subjects varied—a cat sitting in a windowsill, a storefront, a floating swan. One page was devoted to what looked like stylized flames.

More than one of the drawings, not quite a majority but enough for the trend to be noticeable, seemed to be of Jon himself. They weren’t terrible detailed, but something about the rough lines did capture Jon in spirit—the shape of his jaw, the scar on his frowning brow, the perch of his glasses on his nose, the way his hair fell over his face when it escaped his attempts to clip it back. One was a pencil sketch of Jon in profile, with his chin resting on his palm, his hair tied back, the corners of his mouth curved up in a slight smile. Martin, personally, had never seen Jon smile like that before.

“So Jon’s a doodler who likes doing self portraits,” Tim amended. “Bit narcissistic, but pretty harmless.”

“Did he doodle a lot when you were in research together?” Sasha asked.

“Dunno, never saw him do it. Haven’t seen him do these, either.”

“They do look a bit old,” Sasha remarked, frowning thoughtfully over them. “Not very recent.” She gathered them back up again. “Oh, well. Not a bad find, but like Martin said, they aren’t statements so they’re not what we’re looking for.” She put them back in the drawer and shut it again before dusting off her hands and retrieving the picks. “Well, that’s it then. How many statements is that?”

“Ten,” said Tim. “Which one should we do first?”

The question was directed at him, Martin realized with a jolt. “Oh! Er, well, let’s finish up with those two statements about Gerard Keay first. And then…” The Jane Prentiss statement drew his attention, and his stomach turned at the thought. Maybe he wasn’t ready for worms quite yet. “How about this one?” he said, selecting one at random. “0020312, Julia Montauk?”

“Sounds good!” Tim drummed on Jon’s desk for a moment, then got up to return to his. “We’re really going ham this week. Now that Jon’s gone.”

“Do you know how long he’ll be gone?” Sasha asked.

“He hasn’t said anything since he first texted me to call in sick,” Martin replied. “And he didn’t specify what kind of sick he was, so I’m not sure.”

“It’ll be a while, then,” Tim said. “Jon’s a workaholic—if he can’t even call in, much less come to work, then it must be bad.” He brought his hands together sharply. “Leaving us plenty more time to go ham for the rest of the week as well.”

“Ham Week!” Sasha cheered.

“Let’s just… get back to work,” Martin said weakly. And they did, with renewed vigor.

Recording statements only took about twenty minutes at a time, on average. Ideally, Martin should have been able to get through nearly all of them in one work day, even with plenty of breaks between them. But that afternoon, he only managed Julia Montauk’s statement, and then Sebastian Adekoya’s after that, before he felt too mentally exhausted to continue.

No rush, he told himself. He had time. Even if Jon came walking back in the following day, the statements were out now. There was nothing stopping him from getting through them but his own mental blocks.

The sight of Prentiss’s statement still filled him with dread, and Martin wished he knew why.

* * *

“Mind if we use the spare recorder?” Sasha asked, when Martin got back from the break room with fresh tea for everyone.

“No?” Martin glanced at the recorder in question, which was already sitting on Tim’s desk. He was done with recording for today anyway. There was plenty of time left to do more, but he’d had enough. He had just finished recording Sebastian Adekoya’s statement—another Leitner—and he didn’t think he had another recording in him. “Why? Do you need something recorded?”

“Recorded, no,” Tim replied. “Played, yes.” He held up a tape. “We went through Jon’s junk drawer again, found this.”

Exasperation filled him. Martin had half a mind to grab the recorder and take it back to his own office. “What part of ‘statements only’ is so confusing?”

“It’s an unmarked tape!” Tim waved it in his direction, as if that would drive his point home any better. “How do you know it’s _not_ a statement?”

“And if it _is_ a statement,” Sasha added, “the fact that it’s on tape means it’s a good one!”

“Worst case scenario, we play it and find out it’s Jon’s… I dunno.” Tim shrugged. “Weird niche ASMR. Or a video log of his slow descent into megalomania.”

“We only ever use tapes for one thing around here,” Sasha pointed out. “There’s no reason to think it wouldn’t be a statement, is there?”

Martin thought about a lunch break he had taken just a few days ago, the first day of Jon’s absence in fact, during which he had hidden away in the storage room with a tape recorder and his poetry notebook. “I… suppose not,” he said. He doubted that Jon did that sort of thing in his spare time. Of course, he never would have pictured Jon as an artist, either. “It’s—it’s probably blank anyway? Maybe a spare?”

“Only one way to find out,” Tim checked the tape, made sure that it was properly rewound, and popped it into the player. Sasha sat halfway on his desk, leaning over to listen, and after a moment Martin joined them. Once they were all gathered around, Tim hit play.

On the recording came the faint rustling of paper and fabric. Someone muttered “ _There we are,_ ” under their breath. There was a moment’s hesitation before anyone spoke again.

“ _Are you sure about this?_ ” Martin’s eyes widened. That was Jon’s voice. A little hesitant, pitched with uncertainty, neither of which he had ever heard from Jon before, but that was undoubtedly Jon’s voice.

“ _And why wouldn’t I be?_ ” An old woman’s rasp, lightened with a note of humor. Martin could guess who this was.

“ _It’s just…_ _this isn’t usually what you have me do,_ ” said Jon. “ _Usually it’s research, or, you know, an_ errand run…”

“ _Yes, well, I’m afraid something’s come up,_ ” Gertrude Robinson sighed. “ _It’s rather sudden, and_ _I have to leave the institute for the day, but_ _this still needs to get done._ _So, if you still claim to not be busy…_ ”

“ _I’m really not, it’s just…_ _I thought recording statements was more_ _the archivist’s_ _job, specifically,_ ” said Jon. “ _I mean, I_ _don’t even work in the archives_ _, so I don’t know if I could…_ ”

“ _Not to worry,_ ” Gertrude assured him. “ _It’s all very simple. Just a matter of reading words on a page._ ” A pause. “… _I don’t see why you’re worried. As long as it gets recorded, I don’t think it matters to our…_ employer… _whose voice is on the recording._ ”

More rustling—someone fidgeting? Then, “ _I should hope not,_ ” Jon said, dry with humor rather than his usual disdain. “ _Considering everything_ _else_ _on your plate at the moment._ ”

“ _Well, the archivist’s work is never done._ ”

“ _It might be if you brought on an_ assistant,” Jon retorted, with the casual air of a well-trodden argument.

“ _Consider this a trial run, then._ ”

Another pause. “ _Do you mean that?_ ” Jon asked, equal parts curious and hopeful.

“ _We’ll see. Your current position is not one to be_ _discarded_ _lightly._ ”

“ _Yes, yes, you’ve said._ ” Papers rustled. “ _So, I’ll just…_ ”

“ _Thank you, Jonathan. Leave the tape on my desk when you’re finished._ ”

“ _Of course. G-good luck._ ”

Moments later, the door closed. Papers rustled again, before Jon cleared his throat and spoke directly into the recorder.

“ _Right. Er,_ _s_ _tatement_ _number_ _… 0_ _11_ _0312\. Eliza Jackson. Regarding an incident in… Manchester?_ _Yes. Manchester, July 2011. Statement given 3_ _rd_ _of December, 2011. Committed to tape 10_ _th_ _of April, 2013. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, researcher at the Magnus Institute, London._

* * *

“First off, do you know what creepypasta is? I know the name sounds silly, but it’s basically just a horror story that gets posted and circulated over the internet—as short stories, videos, urban legends, even just images. They’re all user-generated, a lot of it’s anonymous, and it can cover pretty much every subgenre of horror you can think of. I’ve been a fan of it since I was thirteen. There are whole communities about this kind of thing, so it’s a great way to find online friends. I met Becca on a horror forum, and we clicked almost instantly.

“I think it was in November of 2010 that we discovered the Artifacts series together. We’d been talking for about five years by then, and when she sent me the link, I didn’t hesitate to open it. We each had a good idea of the other’s tastes, so I knew I’d like it, and I was right. It started as a one-off story that gained steam until it grew into an entire collaborative mythos, with a whole community writing for it and contributing to it. So it was right up my alley—I’ve always been a bit of a writer, and Becca likes reading my work—

“Liked. She liked it.

“Anyway—the premise of the Artifacts series was that there were these cursed objects, hidden away or guarded by dark forces or traps or monsters or what have you. And each story wasn’t really a story, it was more like a set of instructions for how to find one of the artifacts. It usually started off simple—walking into a school, or a hospital, or a mental institution, and saying a specific phrase to the person at the desk. Anything from asking for a name to reciting a cryptic poem or riddle. And from there it would lead down this surreal rabbit hole of steps you had to take to survive the journey and reach the artifact at the end. It was the kind of formula you could play around with, and a lot of people had fun with it.

“Thinking of it now, after I’ve gone to uni and studied this kind of thing, it reminds me of defamiliarization—that’s an artistic technique where something commonplace is presented in unfamiliar or uncommon terms. This was the polar opposite of that: presenting something unfamiliar and frightening in mundane terms, building an atmosphere of horror in the language of the ordinary, until the normalcy of that language feels like a mockery.

“I loved reading the series as much as the next fan, but Becca couldn’t get enough of it. Before long, it was all she ever talked about. She sent me link after link, asked me what I thought of it, talked about the places that some of the stories mentioned. Sometimes she even speculated about some of the stories—which, you know, there wasn’t much to speculate about. A few times I joked about being worried that she’d forgotten they were just stories made up by people on the internet. She laughed it off at first. But then after a while, she just… stopped answering me when I said things like that.

“It started to shift, after that. She kept reading these stories, obsessively, but while she used to just send me any one of them that caught her fancy, she started being more selective. Of what, I was never sure. I could never find any rhyme or reason to the stories she showed me, but I could tell that there was, at least in her mind. I tried writing some of my own to show her, but she just… brushed them off. I asked her what was wrong, thinking maybe she could give me some feedback, but all she said was that they weren’t right, that they weren’t what she was looking for. When I asked her what she was looking for, all she said was, ‘the truth.’

“Then she missed one of our video calls. She lived in Los Angeles, and we were both busy with school and coursework, so we always planned our calls ahead of time. When she finally came back online, she wouldn’t tell me where she’d been. Just that she thought she’d found one, but that she’d been wrong. That happened four times within the same month. She’d just vanish, for days at a time, and when she got back she wouldn’t talk to me. If I pressed, she’d lash out or shut down.

“I should have done something. I know that. But even looking back on it, I don’t know _what_. It’s not like I could corner her or stage an intervention. There was an entire ocean between us, and if I said anything she didn’t want to hear, then all she had to do was turn off her laptop. I just felt so _helpless._ My friend was an entire world away, and I knew—I just _knew_ there was something wrong, but there was nothing I could do to help her. We’d been talking for years but I didn’t know any of her family, I didn’t know anyone else close to her. All I could do was just… watch, from afar, as my friend slipped further and further away.”

 _(“Getting really into it, isn’t he?” Tim remarked. “If it weren’t for the pitch he’d sound_ _exactly_ _like a_ _nineteen_ _-year-old girl.” Sasha hushed him.)_

“There was one chance that I was holding on to. See, we’d been planning on flying her over to spend the summer together. I was nervous, because we’d made those plans before she started acting strange, and we hadn’t discussed them in a while. Sometimes I wondered if she would even come at all, but I held on to hope. I wanted to talk to her face to face and see what was wrong.

“A week before she was supposed to come, she messaged me out of the blue at noon, when it would have been three in the morning for her. It was a link to a new story, called ‘The Book of None.’

“It played out like a lot of the other stories. In any city or country, you walk into a library and ask for the Book of None. From there you’ll face a series of trials, and if you survive them with your sanity intact, you find it. I remember the final trial was to challenge the thing guarding the book—a horrible warped thing, with paper skin and eyes that weep black ink, fingers missing and replaced with sharpened pen nibs. You had to kill it to get to the book, and if you failed then you would take its place. If you succeeded, then the book would be yours, though if you read it, it would blind you.

“As soon as I was done reading, my phone rang. I picked it up. It was Becca, of course. And in spite of the time, she sounded more awake than she ever had before. She said to me, clear as day:

“ _I found it._ ”

* * *

On the recording came the sound of a door opening. Martin couldn’t help it; he jumped, and beside him he felt Sasha twitch as well. She shot him a self-conscious grin.

“ _Hey_.” The voice was not Jon’s, nor was it Gertrude’s. It wasn’t anyone that Martin recognized.

Jon made a noise of surprise. “ _Wh_ _—_ _oh._ ” A chair scraped on the floor. “ _Oh,_ Christ _, what happened? Are you all right?_ ”

“ _Should've seen the other_ guy," the newcomer replied. " _Well, for a given definition of ‘guy.’_ _Sorry, am I interrupting something? I can always just—_ “

“ _No, no,_ ” Jon’s voice took on an almost frantic note. “ _J_ _ust_ _—_ please _sit down._ ”

The newcomer gave a quiet laugh. “ _Nothing wrong with my legs, Jon, it's just the face._ ”

“ _That is_ not _comforting._ ”

“ _Oh, right, yeah, I forgot how much you like my face. You must be devastated then._ ”

“ _I really don’t think this is a joking matter. Is your nose broken?_ ”

“ _Don't_ _think so. Throbs when I hear drums, though_ _._ ”

Jon sighed deeply, with a noise that might have been a name but was too muffled to make out.

“ _Jon,_ ” the unfamiliar man said softly. Warmly, even.

“ _Yes?_ ” Jon asked, still slightly muffled.

“ _I'm alright, love._ _I promise_ _._ ”

Martin shot a look at Sasha. Her mouth was open, and she looked _delighted_. Across from them, Tim whisper-shouted “ _I told you so!_ ” before Sasha quietly hushed him.

“ _I suppose I’ll have to take you at your word,_ ” Jon grumbled.

“ _Well, you always say trust is important in a relationship, so that’s a good thing!_ ” Jon grumbled again, which only made the other man laugh. “ _Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it. I’m_ _actually_ _here to steal you away for lunch._ ”

“ _O-oh! Right. Well, I’m_ _actually_ _in the middle of—oh_ bloody hell _, it’s still recording—_ ”

The tape clicked, skipped, and resumed.

* * *

“Becca and I made plans for me to pick her up at the airport. It was the first time we’d talked about anything but Artifacts stories in weeks. I wanted to be relieved, but it just felt like we were both waiting for something. Becca was excited, and that should have made me happy, but it only deepened my fears for her.

“When we finally met at the airport, her excitement stayed constant, unchanged, and I knew then that it wasn’t me she was there to see.

“She stayed at my flat, that first night. She didn’t sleep. I expected her to be exhausted, after a fourteen-hour flight into another time zone. But she was still up when I went to bed, staring at the screen of her laptop, rereading that story again and again.

“I woke up a few times throughout the night, before I finally got up in the morning. I never saw her move.

“In the morning, she said she wanted to visit Chetham’s Library. I didn’t ask. I didn’t say anything at all, just came into the kitchen to put on some coffee and it was the first thing she said to me. I said alright, odd choice for sightseeing but when did she want to go, and she told me point blank that she wanted to go alone. Said she wanted to experience the city for herself.

“I’m not stupid. I read the story. I knew exactly what she wanted to do.

“So I let her.

“I—I didn’t think anything would happen. _Nothing_ should have happened. It was just a story!

“I watched her walk out the door. I didn’t see her for the rest of the day. My text messages went unread. None of my calls went through. I was starting to wonder if I should contact the police when she called me.

“I almost dropped my phone twice when I saw it was her number. But when I picked up, it was… weird. At first it was just silent, no answer when I called her name. But then something rustled, like paper. I heard a page turn, and through the silence I heard her muttering.

“She was saying things, but none of it made sense. She wasn’t—she wasn’t _talking to me,_ just saying words. There’s a difference, you know? Have you ever read aloud in Italian or Spanish or French—languages you can pronounce, but don’t understand? It was like that—like she was reading words without understanding what they meant.

“I barely understood it myself, until I realized that the things she was saying—they were about me. But they were things I never told her, things she couldn’t have known. My mum’s illness. My dad’s drinking. My brother who drowned when he was three and I was eight and forgot to watch him. I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t. She just kept saying things, kept laying all my secrets bare, right there over the phone.

“I remember screaming awful things at her. I think she was crying. But she didn’t stop.

“So I… I hung up on her.

“That was the last time I talked to her. But I heard what happened later—it came up on the local news. They found her in a restricted area of the library far beyond where the public is allowed. One of the library techs was found dead in a nearby hallway. She was still clutching the knife that killed him.

“There was a detail that leapt out at me, about the dead library tech. There was ink on his face, streaks of it from his eyes like tears.

“And Becca… her eyes were gone. She’d clawed them out with her fingers.

“I read every article I could find about it. None of them said anything about a book, but—I know it was there. I know she found it. I know she was reading it to me, when she called me.

“I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t stopped herself. I don’t think I want to know.”

* * *

A pause. A deep breath from Jon. “ _Statement ends,_ ” he finished. Martin reached for the stop button, only for Sasha to smack his hand away. The tape kept rolling.

“ _Well that_ _sounded_ _like a_ _nasty_ _one_ _,_ ” the unfamiliar man remarked.

“ _S_ _tories like these are_ _bound_ _to be_ _un_ _pleasant._ ” Jon let out a soft, dry laugh, then cleared his throat. “ _Anyway, that’s done._ So _._ ”

“ _Oh dear. Not sure I like that tone. Am I in trouble?_ ”

“ _Don’t look so innocent,_ ” Jon retorted, exasperated. “ _I just wish you’d stop running off into trouble the moment I leave for work._ ”

“ _Yes, I know,_ ” the man said. Fond. Teasing. “ _Y_ _ou prefer I get into trouble when you’re there. Bad habit, that._ ”

“ _At least_ _when I’m there, there’s a chance you_ won’t _come out of it_ _looking like you crashed_ _face-first_ _into a brick wall._ ”

“ _Close!_ ” was the cheery reply. “ _It was concrete and fists._ ”

“ _You’re going to drive me to an early grave,_ ” Jon told him bluntly. “ _Y_ _ou see these gray hairs? Do you know what put them there?_ ”

“ _Nice try!_ _A few of them_ _were already there the day we met._ ” Fabric rustled. “ _You’re just an old man at heart, Jon. Now—lunch?_ ”

Jon’s sigh was a touch over the line into exaggeration. “ _I have_ work _to do._ ”

“ _And it’ll still be here when you get back._ ”

Jon was still making noises of protest even as his chair scraped. “ _How do you keep sneaking past Rosie to get in? I know you don’t have a visitor’s pass._ ”

“ _Who says I’m sneaking? Maybe I’m just naturally charming._ ”

Jon scoffed. “ _Right._ ”

“ _Worked on you, didn’t it?_ ”

“ _That is_ beside _the point,_ ” Jon said primly. “ _Besides, I asked Rosie and she’s never seen you._ _And you’re hardly unrecognizable._ ”

“ _Huh. Guess I’m just that good. Now come on, let’s get you out of this dusty old basement for an hour._ ”

“ _Fine._ ” The smile was audible in Jon’s voice.

 _“Oh, wait—light’s_ _blinking_ _. On the thing. Is it still recording?_ ”

“ _Oh, for God's sake_ —”

The tape clicked, and the recording ended.

Martin gaped at it, too stunned to remember to press the stop button. When he looked over at the others, Sasha looked just as shocked, and Tim’s grin was smug.

“Told you he was dating someone back then,” he said.

“It’s not like we didn’t believe you,” Sasha retorted. “It’s just—wow. _Wow._ Was that Jon? Was that seriously Jon that we just heard, talking like that?”

“Crazy, right?” said Tim. “He almost sounded like a human being.”

“Do you know who he was?” Martin couldn’t help but ask. “Jon’s, uh. Boyfriend, I guess?”

“Never met him, never heard a name,” Tim replied. “Just saw Jon staring at his phone a lot with a stupid grin on his face.”

"And did you hear what they were saying?" Sasha went on. "Am I crazy, or did it sound like Jon was dating a _bad boy?_ " Martin choked on the air he was breathing. "How does something like that even _happen_?"

"People change?" Martin said weakly.

Tim held up his hands. "Don't look at me. This is new information for me, too."

“Do you know what happened between them?” Sasha asked. “This was recorded in April 2013, so that was before you joined the institute, but…”

“Honestly, I don’t have a clue,” Tim replied. “I _do_ remember Jon cashing in a bunch of vacation days back in 2014, though. Mainly because I’d never seen him take a single day off before, so when said he was taking a trip abroad for a few weeks, I noticed. Heard him talk to someone on the phone about it too, making plans and stuff, so it sounded like he wasn’t going alone. He seemed excited, had a skip in his step and everything, so I figured it was a romantic getaway kind of deal, you know?” He frowned. “Of course, then he came back, and he was… weird.”

“Weird how?” Martin prompted.

“Well, I guess weird’s the wrong word,” said Tim. “It was more like… like he was more _Jon_ than usual, but in a bad way. Stressed out, distracted, throwing himself into research, snapping over little things. Standard Jon stuff, but dialed up. Anyway, that lasted a couple of weeks before it just… stopped. He got all, y’know, mopey. Like all his energy was just _gone_. No more grinning at his phone. Spent all his time wandering around like the world had ended. That’s when I realized he’d probably gotten dumped. I tried reaching out to him about it, and he just about bit my head off over it.” Tim shrugged. “Next thing I knew, he’d transferred to Archives, and I stopped seeing him around. And now we’re here.”

“That’s… kind of a shame,” Sasha murmured. “He sounded really happy in that recording.”

“Yeah, well… doesn’t excuse him for being an ass now,” said Tim.

“Never said it did,” Sasha said quietly. “Just that it’s a shame.”

* * *

Ten days after he first called in sick, another text from Jon came. It was short, formal, and to the point—that Jon was sorry for his long absence but would be coming in the following day.

Martin tried not to feel too guilty over the way his heart sank. The past two weeks had been productive. Enlightening. On top of the statements from Jon’s desk, they had gone on to find several more in the archives themselves. Tim was still riding the high of one discovery from Jon’s desk—Leanne Denikin’s statement about an antique calliope organ that, as it turned out, was currently sitting in Artifact Storage. Sasha was throwing herself into the task of finding the elusive Gerard Keay, with no more luck but no less enthusiasm. And Martin…

Well, Martin was recording statements. It was slow going, when he could never manage more than two or three per day. But it still felt like progress. It still felt like they were learning something.

And now Jon, who had only ever shown contempt for statements regardless of veracity, who sneaked and disappeared and stole projects out from under the others, was coming back. Martin dreaded it, even as he wished he could feel otherwise.

He got very lucky, the day that Jon actually returned. It was rare for Jon to come in on time rather than absurdly early, but perhaps it made sense, if he was recovering from an illness. And so it was that Martin saw Jon arrive in the morning.

It must have been exhaustion, or lingering weakness from whatever illness had kept him home, but he seemed oddly relaxed. The angle of his spine was less rigid, the line of his mouth less tight. The bags beneath his eyes were deep and dark, even though his tousled hair and rushed appearance made it obvious that he had overslept. But when his tired eyes passed over Martin, they did not harden into a frown as they normally did.

It seemed an odd coincidence, that Jon would come in looking so oddly peaceful only after Martin had accidentally listened in on him during an earlier, happier time.

“How are you feeling?” Martin asked, every word a light footfall on the thinnest ice.

“I’ve been worse,” Jon replied, adjusting the strap of his bag. His sleeve slipped back, revealing the edge of a white bandage wrapped around his wrist and forearm.

“Oh—what happened there?”

Jon tugged his sleeve back over it. “Nothing serious,” he said. “I was a bit careless one morning.”

“Oh. Er, g-good. I mean, good that it isn’t serious.”

“I know what you mean, Martin.”

Eager to leave the awkward atmosphere behind, Martin turned to leave. “I’ll go put some tea on.” Jon didn’t answer.

When Martin returned, he found Jon at his desk, opening each drawer one by one. Seeing, undoubtedly, how much emptier they were now than when he’d left them. Martin froze in the doorway, remembering how Jon had reacted to Sasha’s theft of his phone. He wasn’t sure he could handle that a second time, after such a peaceful and productive couple of weeks.

But Jon looked through his desk slowly, methodically, as if simply confirming something that he had already known. He said nothing about the missing statements, neither to ask nor explain himself. He stilled when he opened the last drawer at the bottom, its contents returned but still obviously tampered with, but he said nothing as he closed it again.

There was no mistrust or anger on his face, only cold resignation and bleak dismay.


	6. Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took me a while. It's like I got to the past!JonGerry confirmation last chapter and my writing brain was like "Welp! My work here is done!" and wandered off chasing other plotbunnies.  
> I've never been one for consistent update schedules. But, better late than never, I hope!

“The most frustrating thing about this is—” Sasha paused. “Well, not the _most_ frustrating. But it’s pretty frustrating.”

Martin looked up from the report he was reading. He was borrowing Tim’s desk at the moment; Tim was away from the institute, having a chat with some of his contacts in the police department. By now, Martin knew better than to ask for details. “What is it?”

“I can’t nail down how old this guy is supposed to be.” Sasha scowled down at the pile of research notes and photocopied statements covering her own desk.

“Which guy?”

“Gerard Keay—that’s his 2012 hospital visit you’re reading up on, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.” Martin lifted one page to show her. “Not much to it that wasn’t already in the statement.” He frowned, wracking his brain to remember. “Speaking of which, Ms. Saraki said he was in his mid-thirties, right? In 2012?”

Sasha heaved an irritated sigh. “Yes, she did. But according to Harold Silvana’s statement, he was only a teenager in 2002. Which, at most, would put him in his early thirties _now_.”

“Saraki was a nurse, wasn’t she?” said Martin, turning back to the hospital records in front of him. “She’d probably be better at accurately identifying someone’s age.”

“Maybe,” said Sasha, pursing her lips. “But you know, I’m actually more inclined to believe Silvana.”

“Why?”

“Just going by his description of Gerard.” Sasha smirked. “Trust me, nobody over the age of twenty can be _that_ embarrassing.”

“Heh.” A thought occurred to Martin then. “Also, we do know he was running around chasing cursed books, and that’s bound to put a few extra years on you.”

“Also true,” Sasha agreed. “And you know, I think there’s a certain point when you hit your mid-twenties where your age is anyone’s guess.” Her smile turned wry. “I mean, just look at Jon.”

Martin hummed quietly in response. Then he registered what she had said. “Wait, what _about_ Jon?”

Sasha looked back, read something in his expression, and took the time to turn her body fully toward him. A slow smile spread across her face. “Martin. How old do you think Jon is?”

Martin pictured Jon’s gray-streaked hair, his constant foul mood, the plain v-neck sweaters he wore over neatly pressed dress shirts and ties. He answered slowly, watching Sasha’s expression all the while. “Thirty-nnnssii...even?”

“Martin.” Sasha grinned wide. “He’s a year younger than you.”

“He’s _what—_ ” Of course, Jon chose that precise moment to walk in. Martin went silent and picked up the nearest stack of papers in an attempt to look busy, only to immediately realize that doing so made it obvious that they had been gossiping. Normally this would have warranted at least a dirty look from Jon, but by all appearances he appeared to be absorbed in whatever was on his phone.

Remembering the cat photos, Martin was half-tempted to risk wandering over for a peek. The thought surprised him; Sasha must have been rubbing off on him.

“Anyway,” Sasha spoke up again, carefully ignoring Jon’s presence. “The point is, it’s hard to find any solid information on him. Obviously I can’t find him on social media, that was the first place I looked—”

“Can’t imagine a guy who spends his time burning evil books and stabbing people in hospitals would have much of a Twitter presence,” Martin said.

“God, what would that even look like,” Sasha muttered. “But yeah, it’s challenging. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s not _nothing_. I can find information if I know what I’m looking for. His mother’s murder was all over the news, so there’s plenty on that. And I got the records of his hospital stay from the Saraki statement easily enough. But I just can’t find anything _new_. No employment records, no home addresses, nothing. It’s like he’s a ghost.”

“Mm.” Martin wished he could offer something useful to her, but he didn’t know much about how it all worked. How Sasha obtained the information she did was a mystery to him, aside from the fact that some of the process wasn’t exactly legal. “What about a birth certificate?”

“Martin, that’s the first thing I looked for.” Sasha paused. “Well, the second, aside from the social media thing. And as far as I can tell, there isn’t one.”

“That’s… weird,” said Martin. “What about his mother?”

Sasha pursed her lips. “Not much there, either. No medical records to account for a pregnancy and birth, if that’s what you’re asking. I found tax records for Pinhole Books, but those stopped after she… died? Ish? She’s got a birth and death certificate, but nothing to account for her appearances after 2008.”

“Well, she signed Gerard’s discharge papers from the hospital,” said Martin. “At least, someone signed her name. So that’s one account.”

“God, my head hurts thinking about this,” Sasha sighed.

“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky,” Martin said hopefully. “Maybe, somewhere in all this mess, there’s already a statement from him.”

“Maybe.” Sasha looked thoughtful. “I’ll bet he’s got a lot of stories to tell. Though, we’ve already gone through all the statements we found in…” Her voice trailed off. She shot a glance to the other desk.

 _In Jon’s desk,_ she didn’t say. Jon glanced up from his phone with a wry arch of his brow, and they both looked away.

Sasha cleared her throat. “Anyway.”

“Right,” said Martin.

“This is all assuming, of course, that Gerard Keay isn’t already dead.”

“That’d be a shame,” said Martin. “He seems like he was doing some good.”

“Exactly,” Sasha said with a shrug. “We’ve seen him wind up in the hospital covered in burns, rush into mysterious tunnels that somehow cause a man’s death, and set at least one Leitner on fire. That’s not the kind of life that ends at a ripe old age in a comfy bed—”

Jon’s chair scraped quietly as he stood up. Without a word or glance at either of them, he slipped out of the room. Martin and Sasha watched him go, nonplussed.

“That’s odd,” Sasha remarked. “Did you see him do any work?”

“Nope, just stared at his phone.”

“I’ll never understand him.” Sasha set about gathering the papers in front of her into some semblance of organization. “So, since my Gerard Keay research seems to be stalled, what statement’s next on your recording to-do list?”

Martin’s mind took him, somewhat unwillingly, to his office and desk, and more specifically to the statement at the bottom of the pile. 0142302. He’d memorized the number, purely by reading the identifying information without letting his eyes pass further down to the statement itself. Jane Prentiss’s story remained as yet unread.

“Um,” he said. “There’s a few more from—from Jon’s desk. That I haven’t gotten to yet.” He had a brainwave. “Oh! I found another statement by Trevor Herbert—remember, the vampire killer?”

“Didn’t he die?”

“Apparently not.”

“Sounds juicy,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything for it. I could use a break from bashing my head against the wall that is Gerard Keay’s existence.”

“Right, yeah.” Trevor Herbert’s statement. Then maybe Julia Montauk’s? Or William Stratton’s. He’d get to Jane Prentiss when he was good and ready.

* * *

For the first time in a while, Martin hesitated over Jon’s tea.

He had found the right formula months ago, when he finally allowed for the possibility that Jon had a sweet tooth. Martin had never known anyone to take as much sugar in their tea as Jon did. At least, no one over the age of ten. If it were anyone else, it would have been cute; since it was Jon, it was merely baffling.

After Jon returned from sick leave, Martin stalled over making a cup for him. Jon was well again, technically, but stomach illnesses had a way of lingering, and there were few things worse for tender stomachs than lots of sugar. He still looked a bit pale.

At the last minute Martin changed tactics. He made up Tim and Sasha’s like usual, but with the change in plans, Jon’s took a bit longer. He delivered Tim and Sasha’s tea to the usual warm reception, and tried not to notice Jon in his peripherals, glancing up almost expectantly before looking away again. When he got back to the break room, the third mug had just about finished steeping.

Jon accepting tea reminded Martin of a cat, all wrapped up in lofty indifference until no one was watching. This time he must have smelled the difference, because he took the mug and glanced down at it in vague surprise.

“It’s ginger,” Martin offered. “I just figured—for your stomach.”

“My—oh.” Jon blinked at him, looking faintly bewildered.

“Thought your usual sugar intake would, you know, agitate it,” Martin went on.

“Right. Of course.” Jon was still staring at him. “Thank you.”

“What?” Martin blurted out.

Jon was already taking a drink, as if to avoid having to answer. Martin swallowed a sigh and let him have that. As he turned away he caught Tim and Sasha staring, and frankly he didn’t blame them.

It wasn’t every day he got a thank-you from Jon. It wasn’t _ever_ , in fact. The best he could usually hope for was being politely ignored. This was almost a milestone. Though he had to wonder, was it time and familiarity that had softened him, or ten days of being sick?

It had to be the sickness, because now that Martin really thought about it, and really _looked_ —Jon was sort of… different? Not—not any _nicer_ , or any kinder. Just… calmer. He still frowned and scowled, and he still guarded his things jealously—which was fair, considering how many times Sasha in particular had swiped things from him. But it felt less like he was seconds away from snapping at someone.

It was a _relief_. Maybe his stomach virus had been bad enough to put the fear of god in him, just a bit.

It did not, however, stop a statement from vanishing off of Martin’s desk.

Not just any statement, either. Martin was excruciatingly aware of Prentiss’s unread statement these days, the knowledge of his procrastinated task burrowing into him just like her worms. No matter how many times he tucked it somewhere out of sight, it eventually made its way back to the top of the piles of work on his desk. When it was gone, he noticed it as plainly as a missing limb.

And considering whose statement it was? Martin couldn’t even bring himself to be angry about it. Letting Jon deal with it was tempting beyond belief.

Still, he had his due diligence. Martin poked his head into the assistants’ office to find Jon’s desk empty, then set out to search the rest of the archives for him.

The door to Archival Storage was shut, but Martin knew that Jon had hidden there in the past. He knocked, and he could swear he heard something clatter as if knocked over. Cautiously he opened the door, and sure enough there was Jon, sitting tucked away among the shelves and cabinets, bent over a tape recorder. The recorder was off.

“Jon?” Martin called.

The assistant didn’t appear to hear him. From head to toe, Jon radiated tension; his hunched shoulders were tight, hands curled into pale, bloodless fists. He was staring straight ahead, face drawn and tensely blank.

Martin moved closer, his steps slow and unsure. This was new; he was used to Jon when he was irritated, when he was wary, when he was giving someone the silent treatment. But Martin had never seen this before. Even when Jon drew in a slow, steady breath, Martin found himself hovering uncertainly around him.

“Jon?” he repeated. “Are you alright?”

The tension didn’t leave, but at least the unsettling blankness was replaced with something familiar. “Fine,” Jon snapped.

“Oh,” Martin said blandly, hiding his relief. Good to be back in familiar territory. “Well, I was wondering if you’ve been ‘borrowing’ statements off my desk again? There’s one by Jane Prentiss that I was hoping to get to.” As he spoke, he eyed the papers in front of Jon, half-hidden by his hands and the tape recorder. He couldn’t read the words from this angle, but he had a fairly good idea of what they were.

Jon didn’t bother playing innocent, or covering it up. He simply gathered the papers together, popped open the recorder, and handed over both the written statement and the tape. “Already recorded it.”

“O-oh,” Martin replied, surprised when annoyance failed to rear its head. That was usually how he felt, when Jon took over an archivist duty without asking. Annoyed, and defensive, and worried—always worried.

But there was none of that now. Standing there, holding Prentiss’s statement and the already-finished recording, the job that he had been dreading for days already done and over with, Martin could feel nothing but relief.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and found that he meant it.

Jon met his eyes.

It was only for a moment, but Martin could swear there was… _something_ there. Not that Jon was normally emotionless, far from it. But the coldness had cracked open like ice, exposing something soft and sympathetic.

“Looked like it was giving you trouble,” said Jon, and Martin wondered if he knew, if he _understood_ —

But Jon was already brushing past him, and with that the moment was over.

Martin stood there for a while, hovering in indecision with the statement in both its forms. Finally he left the storage room to stash them in his office, but when he looked in on the assistants’ area, Jon’s desk was still empty. He was nowhere to be found in the rest of the basement level, either.

Martin thought back to how Jon had looked when he first walked in, pale and drawn and shaking with tension. He’d looked… repulsed. Sickened. As if his illness has flared up again and he was about to throw up—

Oh, he could have kicked himself. He’d been putting off Prentiss’s statement _because_ he knew that its contents had to be repulsive—reading that must have been hell for someone who just came back from ten days of puking and who knew what else.

Jon wasn’t back by the time Martin finished making a new cup of ginger tea, so Martin went looking for him instead. Careful questions to Rosie at the reception desk and a few passing employees set him in the direction of the little courtyard behind the institute. It was a small strip of green, half-hidden from the public, more for the convenience of institute employees wanting smoke breaks than any aesthetic value. Martin hardly ever set foot in it.

He could hear Jon’s voice on the approach, talking to someone, and he deliberately slowed his pace. No one else was speaking, so Jon must be on the phone with someone, and probably wouldn’t appreciate being eavesdropped on. Still, he hovered nearby, shielding the mug with one hand, and waited for Jon’s conversation to finish.

“—easy it is to lose track of time,” Jon was saying. He was silent, clearly listening to whoever he was speaking to. Then, in a voice as dry as the Sahara— “I feel like you’re being just slightly hypocritical.”

Martin burned with curiosity, but not nearly enough to give himself away. He knew, logically, that Jon must have at least one friend, given the ghost-skull-cat person they had found in his contacts. He wondered if that was who Jon was speaking with now.

When Jon spoke next, his tone was odd only because there was an audible smile in it, and Martin had never seen nor heard him smile before. “Just as long as it’s not Hungarian,” he said, whatever that was supposed to mean.

And then he laughed. Actually laughed! It was a quiet, breathless thing, but a laugh was a laugh. “Put the cat on and we have a deal.”

That was when Martin knew that Jon could never, ever find out that he had overheard this. This was a wildly different Jon from what he was used to, and given how he usually presented himself in the archives, and how little he seemed to think of Martin most of the time… well. It probably wasn’t a side of himself he wanted to show off.

“Very,” Jon said, in answer to something Martin couldn’t hear. “I’ll be there by seven.” A pause. “Thank you. Really. I know things have been weird, and I’m not exactly the most… open. So, thank you. For putting up with me.”

Martin was already moving away, but he caught Jon’s voice saying, “I’ll see you later. …With the _good_ cat treats.”

He made it back to the archives without detection, and left the still-warm mug on Jon’s desk before fleeing to his office to hide.

He did listen to Jane Prentiss’s statement, though. It was every bit as repulsive and horrifying as he thought it would be, and he had to wonder how Jon—Jon, of all people—could laugh and make jokes about cats after reading something like _that_.

* * *

The more Sasha thought about it, the more she could swear that Trevor Herbert was supposed to be dead.

It had been the talk of the institute at the time—a member of the public coming in to give a statement, only to expire on the break room couch. Martin had even confirmed it! She knew, with every fiber of her being, that Trevor Herbert died here.

And yet, here was his second statement—no. His _continued_ statement, given the same day as his first, just shortly after he apparently didn’t die of lung cancer. And when she searched hospital records, in both London and Manchester, she came up empty. No documents of his death. Not in 2010, when his statement was taken, and not since, either.

Another damned ghost. And this one with lung cancer! People didn’t just survive six years with untreated lung cancer!

Then again, he was homeless. Maybe he did die at some point, but the records of it were buried with the rest of the John Does.

“You alright?” Martin had appeared at her side, like a guardian angel bearing tea just the way she liked it, and Sasha could have kissed him.

She mumbled something half-coherent and took the tea from him, then drank deeply to settle herself. “Just frustrated again. Trying to find records of Trevor Herbert.”

“Yeah, I was surprised about him too.” Martin frowned. “I could’ve sworn everyone said he died here—I even asked Rosie, and she agreed with me.”

“That’s not something people just forget about, or make up,” Sasha went on. “Especially not multiple people, agreeing on the same thing.”

“One more mystery for the pile then,” Martin sighed. “Anything I can do to help?”

Sasha looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t _ever_ stop making tea. It’s the only thing keeping me sane, at this point.”

“R-right. Got it.” Martin eyed the current level of tea in her mug, as if mentally calculating how long he would have before he needed to make another. “What about Tim? Has he had any luck?”

“Tim?” Sasha scoffed. “He’s still elbow-deep in that Denikin statement.”

Martin squinted in thought. “Is that the one with the calliope organ and the steamer trunk full of dolls?”

“Yes—wait. What did you just call it?”

“Call what? The calliope organ?”

“It’s ka-lee- _oh_ -pee, isn’t it?”

“Why would it be—” Martin paused. “Is it? I thought it was supposed to be ka- _ly_ -oh-pee. You know, like the Greek muse Calliope? I thought that’s what it’s named after.”

“Maybe, but how many people are going to know it’s from Greek mythology?”

“I-I don’t know, how many people know anything about etymology? It doesn’t change how words are pronounced!”

“Hmm.” Sasha pursed her lips, unconvinced. “I’ve still heard it more often as ka-lee-oh-pee.”

“…How many conversations have you had about circus organs?”

“A-a few!” Sasha sputtered. “I mean… more than one.”

“Right, right, okay.”

There was a pause.

Martin grinned impishly at her. “It’s levi- _oh_ -sa, not levio—”

Sasha snorted into her tea. “Shut up, Martin.”

“Sorry,” Martin laughed. “Well, anyway. If you’re having that much trouble, you can always just… move on. Wait ‘til we get through more of the statement backlog. Or, you know, just ask for an extra set of eyes.”

“I know, I know,” Sasha admitted. “But, I mean, you’re busy recording statements, Tim’s busy investigating evil circuses right now, and asking Jon for anything is like playing Russian Roulette, except instead of a bullet it’s a straight answer, and the other five chambers have snide remarks.”

“Thank you,” said Jon, without looking up from his desk. Sasha had forgotten he was there.

“Oh, are we talking about how helpful Jon is?” Tim asked, walking in.

“To be fair, we’re also talking about how helpful you are,” Sasha informed him. “How’s the clown hunt?”

Tim brightened. “It’s great, actually! I found it in the institute library—there’s this book on circuses in the 1940s, and I think I found the one that Denikin’s grandfather was in. There’s a photograph of them and everything! Ringmaster, organist, two strongmen, I’ll show you when I’ve got it all compiled and organized—”

_**Slam.** _

Sasha nearly jumped fully out of her seat, heart pounding. The rest of her tea sloshed over the rim of her mug, mercifully missing most of the papers on her desk. Instinctively she shoved them away from the spill and yanked open the drawer where she kept her paper napkins.

“Jon, what the hell was that?” Tim’s voice rang out accusingly. “Jesus, I just had five simultaneous heart attacks…”

“Jon?” Martin asked, sounding a bit more worried. “Is… something wrong?”

With the spilled tea contained, Sasha finally allowed herself to look over.

Jon was halfway out of his own seat, gripping the heavy book that he had just brought crashing down on his desk. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose, and the rest of his face was tight and intent.

“Did you see a spider again?” Tim asked dryly.

Jon didn’t answer. Slowly, he lifted the book again. And—

Sasha was a considerable distance away. Jon’s desk was farther away from hers than Tim’s was, and if all this fuss was over killing a spider, then she shouldn’t have been close enough to hear anything. She certainly shouldn’t have been able to hear that wet, sticky squelch as the book left the desk surface.

And yet.

Sasha found herself rising from her desk and making her way over, pulled along by morbid curiosity. She had to know what made that sound, had to know what Tim and Martin were now staring at, had to know what _Jon_ was looking at, why it made him look so… sickened? Afraid?

It was pitifully disgusting. Only about an inch long, flattened by the blow that killed it.

Just a worm. Silver, and oozing with black slime.

Jon dropped the book and nearly sprinted out of the room, brushing past Tim and Martin before vanishing out the door. Martin was the first to follow, and Sasha was close behind.

They didn’t stop until they had reached the front steps of the institute, with Tim catching up a moment later. At first Sasha wasn’t sure what they were looking at—what Jon was looking at—but then she caught sight of the movement, and the silver glint in the sunlight.

It wasn’t a swarm or anything, just a handful scattered down the steps. But there they were, little silver worms with black heads, squirming their way over the steps.

* * *

The worms remained.

It started small, just a scant few on the front steps. In spite of the initial scare, no more worms were found inside the building, much less all the way down in the archives. But on the outside, their numbers slowly increased. By the following week, they could be found all around the building’s perimeter.

Martin made a point of stepping on them whenever he saw them. Spiders were one thing, but something told him that these things weren’t exactly vital to the ecosystem. He knew that Tim, Sasha, and Jon were doing the same. Elias even had the building’s exterior sprayed, which almost seemed to work—for about two days before they returned. Always, they returned.

As far as Martin knew, they didn’t really do anything, either. They were just… there.

 _Waiting_ , he thought. He wasn’t sure why he thought it. What did worms have to wait for?

Still, worms or no worms, they all had a job to do. Martin was extra-vigilant down in the archives—infestations were something to worry about when your job was preserving old records, right?—but otherwise tried to carry on as normal. Tea breaks and all.

“Thanks, Martin,” Sasha said, accepting the mug he offered. “Oh by the way, have you gotten to the William Stratton statement yet?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I think that’s the last one we found in—” He paused, glancing at the one empty desk in the room. “Er. You know. What about it?”

“You’ll want to get to it as soon as possible,” she told him. “I sort of skimmed it, and I think it’s another Gerard Keay statement.”

Martin perked up at that. “Really?”

“It’s got all the trappings—a mysterious book, an even more mysterious goth…”

“That’s _great_. Thanks, Sasha.”

She smiled beatifically at him. “Don’t thank me, thank Jon for keeping all the juicy goth cryptid sightings in one convenient place.”

Martin glanced around again. “Speaking of Jon, have either of you seen him?”

“He just left,” Tim spoke up. “Seemed a bit jumpy.”

“Jumpier than he’s been all week?” Sasha asked. “I swear, ever since he found that worm, he’s been like—like a _clock_.”

“A… clock?” Tim said dubiously.

“Wound up tight and regularly goes ‘cuckoo’.”

“Ah.” Tim nodded. “Well that makes sense. He does hate bugs.”

“We all noticed,” Sasha said dryly. “Anyway, no clue where he is now. Maybe he went to lunch?”

“It’s too early for lunch,” said Tim. “Also, Jon doesn’t take lunch.”

“I’ll just leave this here, then,” Martin muttered, and placed the third mug on Jon’s empty desk. “I’ll go see about that Stratton statement, then.” Sasha murmured a vague acknowledgment that Tim echoed, and Martin wandered back to his office.

Moments later he came flying back into the assistants’ bullpen, a small stack of papers gripped in his hand. “Where’s Jon? Tim, which way did he go?”

“I… wasn’t paying attention?” Tim blinked at him, confused. “What’s the matter? What’d he do this time?”

“Is he stealing statements off your desk again?” Sasha asked. “Wait—did he take the Stratton statement? Because if he did, I’m about ready to smack that man—”

“He didn’t,” Martin cut her off. “He didn’t take any statements off my desk. He _left_ one.”

“Probably another dud, knowing him,” Tim muttered.

“Yeah, I… I _really_ doubt that.”

“Why?”

Martin held up the statement in his hand. “Because he wrote it.”

For a beat, the two assistants stared at him, wide-eyed. Then Sasha was scrambling out of her seat, swearing under her breath.

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear. Where’s that damned tape recorder?”

* * *

( _“Right, uh… you’re sure you want to listen? I don’t usually do this in front of people—”_

_“Oh, I’m not missing this for the world.”_

_“If you’re not comfortable with it…?”_

_“_ _No, it’s fine—it’s fine. Okay._ Ahem _. Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0162003. Statement of… Jonathan Sims, given March 20, 2016. Statement begins.”_ )

Before you get excited, please know that this isn't going to be a habit. I wasn't planning on saying anything at all; as far as I am concerned, biological parasites do not a supernatural encounter make. There are plenty of grisly, horrifying things in the natural world without bringing the paranormal into it. And frankly, toward the end of this whole ordeal, I'd half convinced myself this was all a vivid nightmare brought on by stress.

Believe me, I would love to put this all behind me and leave all the grisly details for the proper authorities to deal with, but, unfortunately, it seems to have followed me back to the institute. So for the sake of everyone else's safety, I have no choice but to break my silence. Hopefully, conveying the pertinent details in a statement will remove the need for any future interrogation. This experience has been thoroughly unpleasant, and I would prefer to speak of it as little as possible.

On reflection, paying a visit to Carlos Vittery's old flat was not my smartest idea. I admit I allowed Tim's comments on the nature of Vittery's statement to goad me into ill-advised action. Let me be clear: I hate spiders. I am not ashamed of that fact. It is a reasonable fear, and a common one, and for good reason in my opinion. Past experiences have instilled in me an apprehension of them that I feel is perfectly healthy, and no amount of lectures on their role in the ecosystem will change my mind about them, _Martin_.

Regardless of my reasoning, I left the institute earlier than normal that evening. Tim had said he would get around to investigating Vittery's flat the following day, so I decided to pay it a visit, in the hopes that I might save him the trouble.

( _"Save me the trouble. Yeah, right. Petty bastard."_

 _“_ _Quiet_ _, Tim, he’s recording.”_ )

I wish I could say that this was my first time gaining entry to a building I had no _legal_ business being in, but I worked for Gertrude Robinson long enough to develop the skill. It’s distressingly simple to slip through the door behind a resident and be on your way; most people don’t know their neighbors well enough to identify a stranger on sight, and the rest is a matter of dressing well and acting like you are exactly where you belong.

There wasn’t much to be gleaned from the main building. The current occupant of Vittery’s flat had no useful information to offer, and the landlord, Yasir Kundi, was only slightly more helpful. He, at least, was able to confirm some of the superficial details of Vittery’s statement—that he lived there, that he kept to himself but was otherwise a model tenant,and that he owned a cat that was now living with a couple in a different flat. Beyond that, he knew very little, and even seemed surprised to hear that Vittery was dead at all.

By this point I was ready to be done with all of it. By the look on Mr. Kundi’s face I was well on my way to overstaying my welcome, and the whole affair seemed to be a massive waste of time. I said my goodbyes, thanked him for his time, and I was just leaving through the front door when I saw it—there on the sidewalk, lying so still I almost mistook it for a bit of garbage, was a worm. Silver, with a blackened head.

I moved closer for a better look—again, not the smartest idea—but I wanted to be sure of what I was seeing, so I wouldn’t fly into a panic over a dropped screw or what have you. As soon as I crouched down, it began to writhe toward me, and on instinct I stood back up and stepped on it. Even through the sole of my shoe I could feel it burst, and when I lifted my foot again, it left a trail of black slime. Disgusting. That sent me around the side of the building, looking for a good place to scrape it off, and instead I found another worm. Crushed that one, too. It made an even worse mess of my shoe.

That was when I spotted the basement window. It was almost level with the ground, and slightly ajar, and when I moved closer to have a look, I caught this smell in the air: musty and sour, like mildew mixed with rot. Best I could tell, it was coming from the basement itself.

I really should have walked away. Should have left well enough alone. Obviously I didn’t, or I wouldn’t be sitting here, writing all of this down.

I didn’t investigate right then and there. The landlord had already seen me asking questions, and I didn’t want to press my luck. I left the building behind, found a cafe where I could sit down for a bite and pass the time, and waited for a few hours before returning. I hoped that waiting would give the building’s occupants time to put me out of their minds.

It was dark by the time I went back, but the light on my phone was bright enough for me to find my way back to that basement window. There were no worms that I could see, but I could swear that the smell had gotten stronger. The window was still ajar. I put my phone through to shine the light around, make sure the way was clear and the floor wasn’t too far down. I opened the window as wide as it would go, and climbed through. Wasn’t hard—I don’t have a lot going for me in size, but at least it makes breaking and entering simpler.

It was… warm. That was the first thing I noticed, how warm it was down there. It wasn’t a pleasant warmth either, and not just because I was dressed for a cold February evening. It was a moist sort of warmth, almost humid. And with that smell in the air, it left me wanting nothing more than to turn and climb back out again.

But, well. Due diligence. I had already gone to the trouble of coming in, and I didn’t want to leave empty-handed.

And yes, I did check for spiders. There were cobwebs in the corners—obviously. It was a basement. Basements have cobwebs in them. But I didn’t find an unusually large and persistent spider that exuded an aura of hatred and malice. In fact, I don’t recall seeing any spiders at all—the webs were old and tattered, hanging from the corners in loose, empty shreds.

I was ready to cut my losses and leave when I heard rustling. Something was moving, on the other side of the basement, and for the sound to carry it had to be much larger than spiders or mice or other vermin. The place was cluttered with old furniture and shelving units, so there was no way to see what was making it from where I stood. So, naturally, I added one more bullet point to my growing list of that day’s terrible decisions, and went to investigate.

The smell grew stronger. I wondered if an animal had gotten in through the open window and made a mess. But the sounds had stopped, and I could see no movement in the light from my phone, until finally I had crossed the basement, passed a set of shelves piled high with clutter, and it fell across the shape of a person.

It was a woman, facing the wall with her back to me, dressed in an old gray coat that reached her knees. She was barefoot, and there was nothing covering her legs up to the hem of the coat but a few scattered spots on her skin.

But I knew exactly who it was, as soon as I saw her. I was already backing away when she turned her head, raised a stained handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed so violently that I have expected to see blood.

Instead, a single worm flew from her mouth and dropped squirming to the floor.

I must have made a noise then—or maybe she finally took notice of the light shining from behind her. Either way she turned, and smiled with blackened, rotting teeth when she saw me. She dropped the coat from her shoulders, and I saw then that the spots on her legs covered her body, and they weren’t spots at all—they were holes, and in the light of my phone I could see silver shapes squirming within them, emerging.

That’s when I ran. I could hear that wet squirming behind me, and I didn’t bother to turn and see if I was being pursued. I was unprepared and out of my depth, so I returned to the window, climbed out, and barely managed to shut it behind me before I ran straight for the nearest Underground station and caught the first train home.

I checked myself for worms, several times. Other riders were giving me nervous looks by the time I finally got off the train. The rest of the evening was uneventful; I got home, scalded myself in the shower, wrote down notes for the follow-up report I intended to write for Vittery’s statement, and went to bed.

I awoke to knocking.

It was confusing, at first. I didn’t know who it could possibly be. I don’t have a very active social life—

( _“Biiiig surprise there—”_

 _“_ _Tim, if you don’t shut up I’m gonna hit you.”_ )

—and there was no reason I could think of for a visit from the landlord. Furthermore, while I was sure that I had gotten plenty of sleep, the room was dark. There was no morning light coming in through my bedroom window. I tried turning on the lamp to see what was wrong, but it wouldn’t respond to the switch. The digital clock by my bed was off, too. I was about to check more lights when the knocking came again, so I got up to answer it.

I always check the peephole before I unlock the door. As I said, I don’t have much of a reason for friendly visitors, so it’s just a precaution. And I was already feeling uneasy, after the previous night, so I looked, and…

I don’t think I need to tell you what I saw. It was her, of course. The woman from the basement. Jane Prentiss. I knew it had to be her. When I pressed my ear to the door, I could hear the worms slithering against it, searching for a way in.

It’s almost funny. When I first decided to put weatherstripping on that door, my landlord grumbled about it. I’m very glad I fought him on it.

I still checked, of course. I jammed towels into every crack I thought a worm might fit through, just to be sure. And then I ransacked the rest of the flat looking for any sign that worms had gotten in. I went back to my bedroom window, and I found that the reason there was no sunlight coming in from outside was that the worms were covering every inch of the glass, trying to push their way inside.

I checked my flat three times over and I didn’t find any worms. So they couldn’t get in. But I couldn’t get out, either. The power was also out, as I discovered.

I did have my phone with me, as you probably realized. And I could have called for help. I probably should have, in retrospect. But I couldn’t stop thinking of the first time Jane Prentiss ended up on the institute’s radar. She killed seven people—all of them medical professionals. I didn’t have any doubts about what would happen to any unsuspecting police officers sent to check my flat. Besides, the power might be out, but the water worked just fine, and I had plenty of nonperishable food. So I decided that I could simply wait her out, and try to document everything and present it to the ECDC once it was safe.

That was about when I called in sick. I apologize for the deception, but I thought that it was the wisest course of action, considering that nosing into my business this time would would have ended with all of you eaten by worms.

So I stayed where I was. Prentiss never spoke, only knocked on the door as if to remind me that she was still there, as if the blocked windows didn’t make it obvious. I couldn’t sleep much without dreaming about things crawling on me, or being woken up by more knocking. With the worms covering the windows, I didn’t get much in the way of sunlight.

I tried to keep my phone off just in case, since I had no way of charging it. But I’d turn it on, on occasion, if only to reassure the few contacts I do have of my continued existence. And, occasionally, to pass the time. That was really the worst part: boredom. I reread every book in my flat, and if you knew me at all you’d know that I never reread books. I hardly own any at all, because there’s no point in buying a book if I’m only going to read it once. But there was nothing else to do, and I needed something to distract myself from the knocking.

And then, one morning, after a rare few hours of uninterrupted sleep, I woke not to the sound of knocking, but to sunlight on my face. For the first time in the better part of a week, my bedroom window was clear.

I didn’t stop to think, or to check the front door to see if she was still there. I saw a chance at escape, and I made up my mind to take it. My flat is on the second floor of the building, but my bedroom window opens to the fire escape, so I saw no reason to hesitate. I grabbed my phone in one hand, and opened the window with the other.

Stupid. I should have known better.

I don’t know where they were hiding. I could have sworn the way was clear. But as soon as I opened the window, they were flooding through it in a single writhing mass.

I ran, of course. That was all I could do. I ran for the door, shut it behind me, tore open my coat closet and plugged the gaps around the door with jackets, and killed every worm that made it through. If I had been any slower—

It wasn’t a clean escape. The moment I was out of immediate danger, I registered the pain in my arm. Three of the things were already burrowing in.

I will spare you the details of their removal. Suffice to say, it was messy and painful, but ultimately successful.

I only discovered then that I had dropped my phone in the confusion. It was still in the bedroom, which was sealed off and full of worms. I was still trapped, but now I genuinely had no way of calling for help. Prentiss was still knocking at the door. I couldn’t trust any of the windows.

I spent three more days like that before it was over. I almost missed the change, myself. I was drifting in that space between sleep and consciousness when I heard knocking at my door again. It was different this time; the knocks were louder, firmer, and accompanied by an unfamiliar voice calling my name. I thought I was dreaming. I checked the peephole again, unblocked the door, and within minutes my flat was swarming not with worms, but health officials. I was whisked off to a hospital for a brief quarantine and examination, and it wasn’t until later that I learned what had happened.

Without access to my phone, I could no longer keep up the charade of normalcy to those few with whom I was still in contact, and inevitably my silence drove them to investigate. A friend of a friend came around to check on me, and by some miracle, managed to avoid Prentiss’s notice and get away. She didn’t call the police; she called the ECDC directly.

In any case, they performed every test imaginable on me, gave my arm proper treatment, and released me with a clean bill of health. I came back to work the following morning, wanting nothing more than to put it all behind me. You’ll forgive me for wanting to avoid the attention, or worse, pressure to give a statement about the experience.

But now the worms keep showing up, more and more each day. I don’t know what it means. Either I was followed, or Prentiss is simply returning to the Institute where she gave her statement before her hospitalization. Either way, I suppose you deserve some context to all this, so here it is. These are all the details of my ten-day absence. There is nothing more to say about it. Thank you in advance for not pressing me for further details, or accessing my hospital records illegally when I inevitably refuse.

* * *

“…Statement ends,” Martin finished, and finally raised his eyes to look at the others. Tim and Sasha were staring raptly at him, clearly just as speechless as he was.

There was a clatter of footsteps by the door. “Forgot my coat,” Jon muttered as he walked in. he stopped when he saw all three pairs of eyes turn to him in unison. “Oh. Christ. That was fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon, dumping craft glue from a bottle labeled "Survivor's Guilt" onto his unraveling web of half-truths: This is fine. I can work like this. Everything is absolutely fine and going according to plan.


	7. Trustworthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS it's been a month, sorry.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“ _Yes_ , Martin,” Jon said, exasperated. He was huddled behind his desk, looking smaller than usual with the three of them surrounding him. “I’m _fine_. I’ve been fine for the past two weeks. You wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong if I hadn’t written all that—”

“Actually you’ve been looking a bit peaky,” said Sasha. “I mean, we all chalked it up to you being sick, but we _did_ notice.”

“Also? Also. About that.” Martin glared at him. “What the _hell_ , Jon? Why would you keep all of this quiet? Why would you _lie_ about it?”

“As far as I was concerned, until a few days ago it wasn’t anyone’s business but my own,” Jon retorted, glaring back.

“So that’s it?” Tim snapped. “If the worms hadn’t shown up here, you’d have kept that to yourself forever?”

“If the worms hadn’t shown up, what difference would it have made to any of you?” Jon asked testily.

“Plenty!” Martin planted his hands on the edge of Jon’s desk, pressing himself back. “Because some people prefer to know when the people they work with are literally in mortal danger!”

“Don’t pretend we’re friends,” Jon said coldly.

“I’m not!” Martin retorted. “God knows you make it impossible to make _that_ mistake.”

“I’m sure you found my absence very helpful,” Jon went on, teeth gritted. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you all kept busy while I was gone—”

“Oh, _please_.” Tim’s lip curled. “All we did was take statements out of your desk that already belong to the institute, it’s not like we took anything of yours—”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you were rifling through my things to get to them—”

“And none of this has to do with the issue here!” Martin cut him off. “It doesn’t matter if we get along or not! I don’t know how to explain to you that people tend to care about whether other people live or die!”

“Okay!” Sasha broke in. “Okay, okay—I think we all need to back off. Martin—”

“This is ridiculous—” Martin began.

“I know,” she said firmly. “Believe me, out of everything Jon’s done since we all started in the archives, this is easily the dumbest.”

“ _Hey—_ ”

“But let’s just _walk it back_ for a minute, alright? Tim?”

“What did _I_ do?”

“Escalate,” Sasha retorted. “Not that you said anything _incorrect,_ just, let’s not make it harder to keep things civil. Martin, I get that you’re freaking out a bit, that was a lot we just heard—well, read, in your case—but shouting isn't going to fix it.”

“Sorry,” Martin muttered.

“And Jon…” Sasha turned to him, faltered again, and sighed. “I’ll be honest, I don’t even know where to _start_ with you.”

“Why start anywhere? I can always just leave.”

“ _No,_ ” Sasha and Martin said in unison. It was Jon’s turn to look bewildered.

Martin wrestled his voice back to a volume that wasn’t shouting. “If you honestly think that after reading that, I’m just going to let it go, you’re _wrong_.”

“You don’t even—”

Sasha’s hand came down on his desk, silencing him. “Jonathan Sims, if you don’t sit down and talk to us for once, I _will_ find a way to access your hospital records.” She leveled a glare at him. “You _know_ I’ll do it.”

Infuriatingly, Jon simply raised an eyebrow at her. “And if I do sit down and talk to you, you won’t?”

Sasha scowled at him. “If that’s what it takes, then yes, Jon, I’ll leave your sordid history alone if you tell us about the worms.”

Jon held her gaze for a few more stubborn seconds, before something shifted in the way he held himself. His spine went from rigid to bowed, and he looked away with a frown.

“Fine,” he said sullenly. “I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Damn right,” Tim muttered.

“Alright then.” Martin let out a breath. “First question—are you safe?”

Jon blinked, and the scowl ceded territory on his face to surprise. “What?”

“You just spent ten days being menaced by a—whatever she is. Worm—queen—thing.” Martin waved a hand vaguely. “Are you safe, now?”

“As I wrote in the statement,” Jon said impatiently. “The ECDC’s done their bit and I’ve been to the hospital. I’m clean, I’m healthy, and I’m not about to bring _more_ worms into the archives than there already are.”

Martin sighed, struggling with his own fraying patience. “Yes, I can read, Jon, but what I _meant_ was—are _you_ safe?”

“As safe as anyone is,” Jon replied, brow furrowing. “They didn’t catch Prentiss, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“What about your flat?” Martin tried. “Is it alright for you to still be there?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “ _As I said in my statement,_ the ECDC already cleared it—”

“God you’re dense,” Martin interrupted. “I _mean,_ do you think she’ll go back to your flat and try again? _Are you_ _safe there?_ ”

“Oh,” Jon muttered, looking momentarily cowed. He pursed his lips, clearly reluctant to answer, but after a moment he admitted, “I thought she might, so I’m currently staying with a friend.” Tim opened his mouth, and Jon turned to glare at him. “And yes, I _do_ have them. I’m sure it’s a shock.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tim said innocently.

“So to answer your question,” Jon finished. “Yes. I am… relatively safe.” He paused, fixing Martin with a considering look. “And if she does come back, I won’t be alone this time, and I won’t make the same mistakes twice.”

“Good.” Martin breathed out, almost surprised by how much of a relief that was.

“In any case, they aren’t even coming after me,” Jon went on. “They seem to be converging on the Institute itself, and they haven’t been any more aggressive with me than with anyone else. It’s possible that she’s here because she somehow tracked me, or it could be because she already visited before and left that… somewhat threatening statement.” He went rigid for a moment, as if suppressing a shudder.

Hindsight hit like a punch. “Her statement,” Martin breathed out. “You recorded her goddamn statement.”

Jon wouldn’t look at him.

“You came back from ten days of that, from being _hospitalized_ —”

“Yes, Martin, I remember,” Jon gritted out.

“And you recorded _that_.”

“You’re really blowing this out of proportion.”

“Are you serious?” Martin demanded. “I found you hiding in the storage room—what, suppressing a panic attack?” Another uncomfortable realization hit. “God, and I knocked first before I walked in.”

“ _Martin_.” Jon looked genuinely pained. “It’s _fine_.”

“All that aside,” Sasha spoke up. “Considering what was in that statement, should we be worried here in the archives? I mean, sure, we don’t have worms covering the windows, but they’re here, and they clearly aren’t going away anytime soon. Should we be contacting the ECDC?”

“Elias is the one who handles stuff like that, right?” said Tim. “Doubt he’d be happy with us calling the government on this place without telling him.”

“I can talk to him,” Martin said hesitantly. “Best to keep him in the loop, I think.”

Jon pulled a face. “Whatever you think is best,” he said flatly.

“Did they tell you anything helpful?” Sasha asked. “Any advice on how to deal with them in the future? Any, I don’t know, useful pesticides?”

“Nothing from the people I spoke with, though I admit I didn’t ask a lot of persistent questions,” Jon replied. “By that point I just wanted to put it behind me. So I don’t know anything about convenient repellents, at least. Stepping on them seems to do the trick, on a case by case basis.”

“It won’t work forever if they just keep coming,” Sasha pointed out. To Martin, she added, “I’d take a copy of Jon’s statement when you go talk to Elias, if I were you. If he knows the full situation, he’s more likely to do something about it.”

Jon pulled a face again, but _more_ , somehow. “If you must.”

“Oh, sorry, do you have a _problem_ with that plan?” Tim asked.

Jon averted his head, and Martin wondered briefly if he was going to refuse to answer—again. But after a moment, Jon sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, nearly clawing out the rubber band tying it back. “You shouldn’t rely on him so much.”

“Why not?” Sasha asked.

“Because…” Jon’s mouth twisted. “You can’t trust him to have your best interests in mind.”

“How do you know this?” Sasha asked.

Jon met her eyes with a glare. “Experience.”

“ _Give an example_ ,” Sasha shot back. “Give us _something_ , Jon.”

At Jon’s deepening scowl, Martin cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Jon, you can’t just throw around words like ‘trust’ and then turn around and refuse to tell us anything. That’s not fair.”

Jon ground his teeth for a moment more, as if physically chewing over his words before spitting them out. “I got into some trouble, once,” he said at last. “You’ve all heard of the Lukas family?”

The others traded looks. “You mean, the institute’s biggest donors?” Sasha said slowly. “That Lukas family?”

“That’s the one,” Jon said flatly. “Suffice it to say, they’re not very nice people.”

Martin remembered what he had read in Naomi Herne’s statement, and swallowed hard.

“I was singled out by one of them,” Jon went on. “Back when I was still a researcher. Just bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. The thing about a family like that, with all their power and connections, is that what one of them considers a simple joke could, by others, be considered… ruinous.”

Martin could feel his heart sink purely from sympathy. The thought of drawing the ire of someone like that—of a _family_ like that—was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

“Elias has close ties to the Lukases. He could have helped. He didn’t.” Jon’s tone was as short as his sentences. “I managed to get out of that myself, with some outside help, but it was a close thing, and none of that outside help was from Elias.” His eyes flashed briefly with anger. “Elias puts the institute and its goals ahead of everything else, including the people in it. Don’t forget that.”

Martin nodded, lips pressed together against a new bundle of worries.

“That’s great and all,” Tim spoke up. “But we’re talking about asking his help to keep worms away from the institute. I’m pretty sure that’s in line with the institute and its goals, so I think he’ll be on board.”

Jon shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you want my advice, just have some kind of contingency.”

“Right. Well.” Sasha stood up then. “To _that_ end, I’m going to have one last look at all our Prentiss notes, see if I can’t find anything useful. Tim, give me a hand?”

“Right behind you.” Tim glanced back at Jon. “Feel free to jump in, if you feel like it.”

“I’ll talk to Elias later,” Martin called after them. “Oh, and—Sasha, I also have some statements to record, including that Stratton one that has Gerard Keay in it?”

“Let me know if you need anything!” With that, Sasha and Tim vanished into the shelves.

After a moment of silence, Jon’s chair scraped back. “I should go help,” he said.

“Oh.” Martin didn’t mean to sound that surprised, but—well, Jon was never much of a team player, so it was a little odd hearing that from him. “Wait, um, Jon?”

“Yes?”

Martin hesitated, struggling to pull words into coherence. “Look,” he said. “Just… I know we haven’t been getting along. And I know you said you’re fine, and you don’t need help, and you’re already—already situated, and everything.”

“Yes?” Jon said warily.

“Just, if you need anything, don’t keep quiet about it, alright? Like if… I don’t know, if Prentiss shows up again, or if staying at your friend’s falls through for whatever reason. Just, if you need—if you need anything.”

Jon gave a slow, owlish blink. “Martin,” he said slowly. “Are you offering me a place to stay?”

“Maybe!” Martin sputtered. “Maybe I’m just trying to be a good… boss? Boss. God, I’ll never get used to that. At the very least, if you needed it, we could set up something here and I could talk to Elias about getting some extra security.”

Jon’s face did that thing again, which Martin was beginning to recognize as his “I really don’t like Elias” face. “Well, I appreciate it,” he said. “And, much as I’d _love_ to spend every hour of the day here, my current accommodations have a specific benefit that I’d rather not leave behind.”

“What… benefit?”

“There’s a cat that lives there,” Jon said, straight-faced.

“Oh! You mean the—” Martin forcibly closed his mouth, cutting off the rest of his own words. He’d been about to say _You mean the_ _cute black and white_ _one in the pictures on your phone?_ The phone that Sasha had stolen in order to look at those pictures. Probably not the best idea to bring that up when they were having such a nice moment. “Right. Well. Er, have fun with that.”

“I intend to. If you’ll excuse me—” With that, Jon swept off into the shelves.

Martin was left standing there alone, watching him go and marveling at the civil note on which the conversation had ended. He hoped it was a good sign for the future. Another step forward, like finding the way Jon liked his tea.

After a moment, Martin shook himself and returned to his own office to pick up Jon’s statement and brace himself for a conversation with Elias.

* * *

_(_ _Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0_ _120_ _9_ _11_ _. Statement of_ _William Stratton_ _, given_ _November 9_ _, 2012._ _Statement begins._ )

There really isn’t much to say, to be honest with you. I mean… it happened. Something happened. At least, I think it did. This past week, even just on my way here, I felt so certain of it, but now that I’m sitting here, I’m just not sure I even have anything. I can’t make sense of it, but then, I suppose that’s more your job than mine. So, here it is.

I’ve been a single father for going on two years, now. It took a lot of adjusting, between fixing my work schedule and figuring out how to do a job meant for two people. I’m luckier than most—we have good neighbors, and my sister’s childless but happy to play the doting auntie.

Growing up, Amanda and I have disagreed on a lot of things, but the one thing we both saw eye to eye on, at least when we both got to a certain age, was the idea of having kids. A few years into uni, after a bit of experimentation, Amanda doubled down on a realization she’d had back in secondary school, that a husband and kids weren’t in the cards for her. She liked the single life too much, was never much interested in dating, and—honestly, at times I envied her for it. There was a whole world of emotional turmoil that she got to skip out on, just by virtue of having no interest in it.

As for me, I was nineteen when I met Ellen, and within two months I’d decided I was going to spend the rest of my life with her. I was still on my first year at uni, and she was a year into her graduate program. She had a few years on me, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. When I had the chance to look back and work through it all, there were a few red flags I overlooked, but at the time I was enough in love to be happy letting her string me along. I like to think she had some affection for me, if only because I can’t think of why she’d have stayed as long as she did otherwise.

We were together for seven years in total, married for two. When I met her, I shared my sister’s conviction regarding children, but somehow, Ellen managed to talk me around. Honestly, I can’t pinpoint a specific moment I changed my mind, but at some point it just felt pointless to argue about it. I didn’t feel strongly either way, and I figured I’d come around the rest of the way once we had a kid. Ellen was pregnant when we got married, and she had Ben about five months later. And honestly? I _did_ sort of come around. It was scary, at first, especially after I’d spent years not being sure if I even wanted kids. But I love the little guy. It felt a bit rushed, how we did it, but when I held him, I felt more sure of myself than I had in years.

Ellen, though.

By the time I realized she was checking out, she was already on her way out the door. It’s funny; we sort of switched places. I went from not being sure about fatherhood to realizing holding a life you made in your arms is kind of awesome, and she went from pushing for kids to realizing that they tied her down in a way she couldn’t talk her way out of.

So, she left.

It was a clean break; we split everything half and half. Except Ben. She didn’t even ask for visitation rights. And suddenly I was a single father, scrambling to reorganize my life around raising him alone. I won’t lie, I was a mess at first. Wasn’t sure how to live my life with a missing piece. Amanda said I ought to try counseling, and after a few weeks of dithering, I went. It wasn’t a magic fix or anything, but it really helped me put things into perspective, especially around Ellen herself. I had a lot of uncomfortable realizations.

But we’ve been alright. Ben’s seven, now. He’s on a sea creatures kick. You know how kids get obsessed with things? Right now it’s sea turtles and kelp forests and mantis shrimp and all that. Won’t shut up about them, it’s honestly impressive. Kid knows more marine biology than I do, that's for sure.

I didn’t think much of it when that new children’s library opened up. It was sort of a stroke of good luck, actually. The area where I live doesn’t have a lot of places to take kids nearby, and the library was within walking distance, so, it was only natural that we go check it out from time to time. Nice place, good atmosphere, bright colors, comfy chairs, all very convenient. So I didn’t think much of it.

I think that’s a problem with me, not thinking much of things until I’m in over my head and can’t get out again. If it’s easier not to think about it, you don’t notice the red flags. Like with Ellen. Like with this library. I didn’t think about how odd it was that it just popped up out of nowhere, without any advertisements, like it was tailor made just for what I needed. All I cared about about was the closeness and the convenience and how quiet and well-behaved the kids there were.

It took me a while to realize how odd that was, too. I mean, it was a children’s library. Kids don’t usually think about library etiquette, and some of them were as young as two or three, and every single one of them was so _quiet_.

It was Ben being quiet that finally struck me. See, I found him a book about sea otters, and he hasn’t gotten to sea otters yet. I figured he’d snatch it up, read it, and immediately start regurgitating every bit of it back at me before we could find another. But he didn’t. He just sat there, in that little plush chair, reading silently and turning the pages one by one. I mean, he didn’t even shove the pictures in my face. He _always_ shows the pictures.

It was odd. But I didn’t realize it was odd until a few nights later, as I was washing dishes. Ben was chattering away about something that happened at school, and I remembered thinking it was lucky he didn’t chatter this much at the library. And then I stopped, and I wondered why he didn’t.

…Isn’t it funny how you only notice something’s wrong after it’s over?

And even with that realization, I just… didn’t stop going to it. I couldn’t work out why I thought something was wrong, not in any way that made sense or didn’t sound overly sensitive and timid. Kids being quiet in a library isn’t really a reason to not like the library, is it? So I kept going, partly out of genuine desire, but also because a small part of me _wanted_ more to go wrong, and I wanted to be there when it happened, just for the validation. Ben never put up a fuss about going, but he didn’t seem excited about it either. He’s an energetic kid, and there’s no way he wouldn’t have objected to sitting still and being quiet for hours at a time. It was weird. I don’t know how else to describe it. Weird and uncomfortable, but also somehow inevitable. I don’t think either of us liked it there, or really wanted to go. We just… went. There just wasn’t enough reason not to.

I don’t know how many times we went to that place before I noticed the door.

There wasn’t anything special about it. It was plain, which stood out against the bright colors of the place, but aside from that, it was just a door. There were no signs indicating what it was for. It just stood there, in the back wall, always closed. And the really weird thing was that I’d seen people walking toward it, or away from it, but I never actually saw it open. And every time it entered into my head to go up to the desk and ask, I’d get distracted. It would slip my mind, and by the time I remembered, we would be halfway home already.

That was how it always was, with that place. I’d think about going, and suddenly we’d be out the door and on our way. I’d turn my head, and Ben would have a new book. I’d see something, I’d blink, and I’d miss the rest.

I guess it makes sense that when it happened, there was no warning. It was sudden, and then it was over.

There was a man in the library when we got there. That wasn’t uncommon. There were always men there, dads like me. The weird part was that I noticed him. Right as soon as I walked in, my eyes were drawn to him. Short, skinny guy. Shifty-looking, too. He pretended to stare at shelves, but he never had any kids with him, and he kept fidgeting and looking around, like he was ready to start something. In any other children’s library, you would’ve had parents complaining. But here, no one ever complained about anything. No one ever thought about wrongness. Thoughts like those never really stuck. So there he was, staring at bookshelves, twitching at every noise.

One thing I did notice, though—he kept looking at that door.

And after that point, I didn’t _stop_ noticing. I didn’t stop thinking about him. I kept expecting my eyes and my mind to wander, but I kept going back to him. It was almost a relief to be able to focus on something for once, as unsettling as it was.

And then, once I’d started, I couldn’t _stop_ noticing. Not just the man, but other things as well.

The stains on the door and on the wall around it. The librarian behind the desk who never got up, not once. The unnatural stillness of the children and their parents, staring at books with eyes that stayed fixed in the sockets, stirring only to turn pages and continue the eerie imitation of reading.

The webs.

Did I mention the webs? They were everywhere—festooning the ceiling, running from shelf to shelf, clustering around corners and reading nooks and circles of chairs. And the door, of course. My gaze kept returning to that door, just as the man’s did. I thought about going to him, about asking him about it, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind, I noticed the webs between where I stood and he stood. I remembered what I knew about how spiders catch food, by spinning their webs and waiting for some hapless insect to walk upon them. I stayed where I was, and did my best to keep an eye on Ben.

And then front entrance opened, and another man walked in. Weird looking guy, way too old to be in a children’s library without any kids with him. He was tall and lanky with black hair that reached his shoulders, and dressed in a long black coat that went past his knees. As he looked around the library, I could tell just from his eyes that he was noticing things, too.

I followed his eyes as they swept the room, first to the librarian at the desk, then to the shifty guy in the corner, then to one of the reading nooks where all the spiderwebs were clustered. There was a father and daughter sitting there with a book between them. He was reading aloud to her, though he was too far away for me to hear the words.

Before I could turn away, the man reached the end of the book, closed it, and got up. They started walking together, the little girl pulling him along. Their steps were odd, jerky, like poorly-handled marionettes, and it wasn’t long before I realized they were heading straight for that door.

This time, I didn’t look away. I was determined to keep watching, to see what was behind that door. My eyes were fixed on them, and that was why I didn’t see the man in the long coat until he had already reached them.

Right when the little girl was about to touch the door handle, the man in the coat grabbed the book away from them. Looking back, it was pretty rude. I half-expected the dad to turn around and yell at him. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at the door, like he’d forgotten where he was. The man in the coat took the book up to the desk, talked back and forth with the librarian for about a minute, and the guy picked up his daughter and went straight for the exit. I never saw them again.

That’s about when the fire started.

I’m a little surprised an alarm didn’t go off, with how fast the smell spread. It was… awful. Not like how you’d expect smoke and fire to smell. There was something musty and acrid behind it, like burning hair. When I looked around, I saw smoke spreading from the reading nook in the corner. The only person close enough to have started it was that shifty guy from before.

Sorry, now that I’ve written that I realize it sounds uncertain, like a guess. It’s not a guess. I know he started the fire, because I watched him start a few more. He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky about it. Not that he’d have to. Like I said, people were quiet in that library.

But with the fires spreading, that changed. People were starting to stir. It was almost like everyone was waking up from a trance. There was shouting. People were grabbing their kids and getting out, myself included.

The last I saw before I got Ben out to the street was the shifty guy making a break for the front desk. But that wasn’t the last I saw of them completely.

I saw them again a few minutes later, while we were waiting for the fire brigade outside. The guy who started it was making a break for it, keeping to the edge of the crowd, moving awkwardly like he was injured. And, not far behind him, there was the man in the long coat. He was following him.

Don’t know why. Don’t care. Though—maybe it’s worth mentioning that, the guy who started the fire?

He was carrying that book.

* * *

Martin had just finished reading off the follow up notes on the Stratton statement (confirmation of the fire, no injuries reported, the abrupt closure of the library following the incident, still no word on where Gerard Keay was) when Sasha walked into his office without knocking and sat down in front of his desk.

“There’s been an incident and I’d like to talk about it,” she said.

“Um. Alright?” Martin set the tape recorder aside.

He hadn’t seen much of Sasha in the last couple of days, not since their little mini-intervention for Jon. Her single-minded search for information on worms kept her away from the others. It showed on her face now; she was tired and fidgety, and something about the way she held herself suggested that she didn’t really want to be here at all.

“What… kind of incident?” he asked. “Wait, is this about Tim’s April Fool’s joke?” She pulled a wry face, and he heaved a sigh. “I told him it was in poor taste, but he swore up and down it’d be funny and it wouldn’t make a huge mess of the break room and then it _did_ and even if it was a little funny it wasn’t worth the cleanup—”

“Martin, _Martin_ —” Sasha raised her voice, leaning over the edge of his desk to cut him off. “Martin, it’s not that. It’s—okay, you’re not wrong. But that’s not what I’m here about.”

“…Oh. Sorry. What kind of incident?”

Sasha pursed her lips. “The, um. The spooky kind.”

“Oh.” Martin’s brain rapidly caught up with the situation. “ _Oh_. Did you—” He glanced at the tape recorder he had just put down. “Are you asking to make a statement, or…?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha said cautiously. “I’m… actually not sure I have anything yet? Nothing really solid, I just,” she paused, laughing slightly. “I can’t help but imagine the follow-up? And for what I have right now, there’s nothing to follow up on. Just a couple of encounters, I guess. No one involved but me.” She smiled wryly. “Jon would have a field day ripping it apart.”

“Well, Jon’s not the head archivist, so, he doesn’t get a say,” Martin pointed out. “If you want to make a statement—I mean, if it’d make you feel better, then yeah. Let’s do this.”

Sasha paused, considering it, before she finally shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Maybe later. I’m not here to be recorded, I’m just… you know when you’re going on a first date and you text a picture of them and their license plate to your friends, just in case you end up a missing person?”

“I… no? Maybe?” The connection clicked. “Sasha, are you planning on doing something dangerous?”

“No,” Sasha replied automatically. “…Maybe?”

Martin opened his mouth to comment on that, then closed it. “You know what, I think I’ll just… listen, first. Then pass judgment.”

“Much appreciated.” Sasha sat forward, letting her arms rest on his desk. “So. I had an encounter. Well, two or three, sort of. First one was outside of my building when I was heading to work.” Martin tensed in alarm, opening his mouth to interrupt, but she shook her head. “Listen first, then pass judgment, remember? I don’t think I’m in any danger, yet.”

The “yet” was the problem.

“I first saw him through the window in the stairwell. It’s bubble glass, so it already makes people look distorted, but this one looked… extra distorted, if it makes sense. Like more warped than any of the other people I saw through the same window. But when I looked at him head-on, he was normal. Well, a little normal. He looked like a person, at least. Tall, long blond hair, good luck guessing his age. You know how some people could be anywhere between twenty-five and sixty? One of those.”

Martin nodded, aching to interrupt and ask questions.

“I watched him for a bit until he left,” Sasha went on. “And then I saw him a second time at a cafe, on my way from Victoria Station. I didn’t go in—”

“Thank god,” Martin blurted.

“—until after I left work, when I walked by the same cafe and he was still there.”

“Sasha,” Martin said weakly. “Sasha, why?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t tell you. I’m the first to admit I’m not the bravest person—working in Artifact Storage is the best way to cure bravery, honestly—but… I don’t know. I was just so _curious_. I had to know. And he was right there, so I went in. Just to talk.”

“And?” Martin prompted, when her hesitation stretched past his threshold of patience. “What did he say?”

“A lot of things,” she breathed out. “Not all of it made sense. I asked him what he was—it? I asked it what it was? By that point I was sure I wasn’t dealing with anything human. But anyway, I asked, and it almost gave me a migraine laughing at me. Asked me how a melody would describe itself, whatever that means.”

“That’s not ominous at all.”

“Right? That’s what I thought!”

“What else did he—it—say?” Martin asked.

Sasha took another deep breath. “That it wanted to help. With Jane Prentiss, apparently—though, it didn’t waste any time telling me it didn’t care if we all lived or died. And… that’s why I’m here, telling you. Before I walked out, it told me to meet it at Hanwell Cemetery if I wanted to save your life.”

“Sorry?” Martin blurted out. “Save _my_ life?”

“That’s what it said. It knew your name. Tim’s too.” Sasha huffed out a laugh. “You know—it’s awful, but it’s kind of funny.”

“What?”

“I don’t know why it slipped out,” she said. “I don’t think he’d thank me for name-dropping him in front of a monster, but when it mentioned saving you and Tim, I had to ask—‘What about Jon?’ And it got this long-suffering look on its face and said, ‘If you must.’ So apparently even the monsters out there think he’s insufferable.”

To Martin’s horror, there _was_ something darkly funny about it. Luckily, he just about managed not to laugh.

“So… that’s it?” he said when he recovered himself. “It just showed up, laughed, took the piss out of Jon, and invited you to a graveyard?”

“Pretty much,” said Sasha. “I just wanted to give you a heads up, you know. Hopefully I’ll have more for you after.”

“Wait, you’re not—” Martin nearly started out of his seat. “You’re not actually thinking of going.”

“Well, no,” Sasha said carefully. “Not thinking. I _am_ going. Remember the thing I said earlier, about just in case I end up a missing person?”

“ _Sasha._ ”

“Look, if this thing really wanted to kill me, it could’ve followed me home that night, or snatched me off the street at any point,” Sasha told him. “Why would it need to lure me to a graveyard first? I doubt distorted hand-monsters care much about witnesses.”

“That’s not the—wait, hand-monster?”

“It had weird hands.” Sasha waved it off. “Not important. Look, you’re not going to convince me otherwise, so don’t bother trying.”

“But why go alone?” Martin pressed. “Isn’t that just asking for trouble?”

“I can’t be sure it’ll be there if I don’t,” said Sasha. “Besides, who could I take? Tim’s still deep-diving in the files looking for spooky circus stories and worm weaknesses, you’ve got your hands full running the Archives and also looking for worm weaknesses, and Jon’s already had one run-in with something dangerous. Besides, can you imagine how he’d react if I asked him? He’d either turn up his nose or laugh me out of the room.”

“Does Jon laugh?” Martin asked. “I mean, for real laugh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”

“I’m sure, if it meant expressing his undying disdain, he’d give it his best shot,” Sasha said dryly.

Martin was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I could come with you,” he offered. “I mean—I know I’m not much, but it’s got to be better than going alone.”

For a moment Sasha looked surprised. Then her eyes softened, and she smiled at him. “Thanks, Martin. But I think it’s best if you wait it out. Better if one of us takes a risk than all of us at once. You especially—you’re head archivist, after all.”

“That hardly means anything and you know it.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Sasha got up. “I’ll be fine, Martin. I promise. And when I get back, I’ll have a full statement for you.”

“That’s not comforting,” Martin informed her.

“Too bad.” She made her way back to the door, then looked back. “We should really start a cork board one of these days. Organize all our weird observations. Worms and Leitners and circuses and such.”

“Is Tim still on circuses?” Martin asked. “I thought we already finished looking into the Denikin statement.”

Sasha’s face went through a complicated series of micro-expressions that Martin couldn’t hope to follow. “Be patient with him, alright? It’s important to him.”

“If you say so… Sasha?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you _sure_ about this?”

Sasha hesitated, her hand resting on the doorknob. “No,” she said after a moment. “I’m not. But I am sure it’s important. And I just… I have to know. There’s so much I don’t know—that _we_ don’t know. That’s being kept from us. It’s going to keep eating at me until I find out what it is.”

After a moment of grinding his teeth, Martin deflated. “Fine,” he said. “Just… be careful? And if you start thinking you’re in danger, just—get out of there. You’re more important than a ghost story.”

“You say the sweetest things.” With that, Sasha left the office. Martin watched her go, heard her footsteps fade as she made her way back to her own desk, and listened to her startled yelp from the other room. “ _Jonathan Sims, I_ know _you don’t have any reason to be loitering around my desk!_ ”

“ _I’m just looking for a pen, you don’t have to shout—!_ ”

“ _A likely story!_ ”

A burst of whispered laughter escaped him, even as ever instinct screamed for action. He had to do something, anything to help—but he didn’t know what. Some things you just couldn’t fix with tea.

That thought sat with him for about a minute before he got up from his desk to head for the break room.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t damn well try.

* * *

Sasha was the last to leave in the evening. That was always the plan, but she’d expected it to be a bit more of a challenge. Trying to outlast Jon was usually an exercise in patience verging on insanity.

But to her surprise, he only stayed about fifteen minutes after Tim and Martin left for the day. The last time she’d tried anything like this, it had taken hours for him to drag himself away from his desk. Maybe whoever he was staying with was instilling better habits in him.

She didn’t have time to dwell on that. As soon as she was alone, she grabbed her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and started off for Hanwell Cemetery.

(Was her bag heavier than usual? If her mind hadn’t been so occupied, that thought might have made it to the forefront.)

Night was falling by the time she reached the cemetery. It had been raining that day, and the fading light touched on the puddles and the wet iron gate at the entrance. Sasha slowed her pace, taking as much of it in as she could. Questions ran through her mind, one after another. How big was the cemetery? Was there room to run? Were there multiple exits? A fence she’d have to climb, failing all else?

She didn’t have a lot of time to plot escape routes, because when she looked back at the iron gate, Michael was standing there, waiting for her.

A wide pool of water sat at its feet, reflecting the sunset and the gate and the distorted, elongated figure with its limp arms and bloated, razor-sharp hands. Sasha’s stomach turned, but her steps did not falter.

Michael smiled as she approached. It turned, as if to lead her inside, but then it paused and looked at her again, considering. Sasha halted, curling her hand into the strap of her bag. She didn’t like being scrutinized by this thing. She didn’t like it at all.

“Brought company, did you?” it asked. “Insurance, is it?”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I came alone.” She looked over her shoulder, heart leaping to her throat, momentarily terrified that Martin or Tim had wandered after her into this. But there was no one else on the street besides her and Michael. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved about that, or even more terrified.

When she turned back to Michael, she found it looking at her, but not at her face. Its eyes were on her bag, still hanging heavy on her shoulder.

(It was heavy, she realized finally. Why was it heavy?)

She reached inside, and her hand struck the corner of something hard and slightly weighty. When she grasped it and pulled it out, she found that it was a tape recorder. Opening it revealed a fresh tape, rewound to the beginning, ready to record.

“I—I didn’t—”

“Someone’s curious,” Michael remarked, turning away. “Come along. Record, if you like.”

That… was actually a very good idea. Memories were faulty things; even if she did survive this to make a statement later, she might not remember all the details. At least this way…

Had she thought of this, subconsciously? Slipped a tape recorder into her bag without thinking of it?

Michael was already walking away. Sasha hit Record and hurried to catch up.

It wasn’t leading her into the cemetery, to her surprise. It was heading down the road instead, toward a nearby row of houses. Sasha trotted to keep up with its long strides, and found herself changing pace again and again. She would fall behind, then overtake him, then fall behind and fall behind until suddenly she was passing him again, never quite matching his pace. But when she looked at him, his steady stride never seemed to change.

At the end of the street—Azalea Close, according to the sign—stood a single building, the only one in poor repair. It was boarded up and looked abandoned now, but it might have been a pub once. There was a strange smell in the air, vaguely chemical, but too faint for Sasha to place.

As they came around toward the entrance, Sasha froze. Michael also came to a halt as well, his strangely fluid steps stilling just in time for Sasha to hear it.

The clatter of something falling. Uneven, running footsteps, fading into silence.

“What was that?” Sasha asked.

“I wonder,” Michael said in a tone that suggested that it knew, and wasn’t going to tell her.

They reached the entrance, and the smell became a heavy wave to her senses. Even if she couldn’t identify it by scent alone, the empty canister lying on its side near the door was enough to tell her all she needed to know.

Petrol. And there, lying next to the dropped canister, was a matchbook.

“Gas can, matches,” Sasha said, for the benefit of the recording. “Someone tried to burn this place down.” She stooped and pocketed the matchbook—better safe than sorry. “Why?”

“More than one way to solve a problem,” said Michael.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sasha demanded. “Should we even go in?” Michael was already stepping closer to the door. “Wait—whoever it was, they might come back and finish the job while we’re inside.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Michael. “Not as long as you’re here.”

Sasha went still. “Me? Why?”

Michael laughed. The sound burrowed under her skin like hooks, digging deep and dragging. She could feel the vibrations of it in the roots of her teeth. When it finally stopped, she was breathing hard, as if the air around them had thinned.

“Blindness is a very poor look for you,” said Michael, as its chalkboard-nails voice curled with amusement. “It’s like you don’t even know you’re being lied to.”

“What—who?” Sasha demanded. “When?”

“Every day,” Michael sang out, and opened the door. “Shall we?”

It was dark inside; Sasha cursed herself for not bringing a torch. Maybe she could use the light in her phone? But that was a risk—if things got dicey, she might drop it. She didn’t have a spare or a landline, so if tonight ended with her trapped in her flat by worms like Jon had been, she’d be in real trouble.

Still, it couldn’t hurt just to have a look. With the sun was going down, she couldn’t rely on daylight for long.

Reaching through her bag for her phone, her fingers brushed smooth plastic and metal, then wrapped around a familiar shape.

No. Hell no. How even—

She pulled the torch from her bag and turned it on, illuminating the pub’s dusty interior as bright as daylight. One of those expensive high-power LED types, and it definitely wasn’t hers.

Sasha marked that down as a question for later. Checking the recorder one last time, she followed the nightmare into the dark.

All the while, she tried to ignore the prickling up the back of her neck that told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was being watched.

* * *

Her terror and confusion were thick in the air as she wandered back out into the night. It smiled, savoring the sweetness as it flicked the dead worm from its fingertips.

“There, see?” it said to the dark corner by the bar. “I did not harm her. I even saved her, and said nothing to her but truth. I even left her with a brand-new weapon to use.” It paused. “Not that your way would have failed. But I thought you might appreciate a bit of variety.” There was no answer. “Well? Am I not trustworthy?”

The watcher in the shadows stepped out, and the weight of his eyes made the thing that had once been Michael Shelley (the thing that had not been Michael and was Michael and was not and would never be again) choke on the taste of its own hatred.

It remembered her eyes—how they had shifted over the course of a boat ride to the north. From warm and soft and disarming to every bit as hard and cold and sharp as the ice that closed around the ship like teeth.

It hated Gertrude Robinson, and seeing eyes like hers in the face of the man before it made it hate him, too.

“You’re a manifestation of madness,” he said to it, matching loathing for loathing. “I think it’d kill you to be genuinely trustworthy.” His lip curled. “Besides, you were the one who put her in danger in the first place.”

“Am I, now? Or are they already in danger?”

“Leave them alone. They’re not involved—”

It laughed, relishing the pain that crept over his face at the sound. “Of course they are,” it said. “And tonight she involved herself, of her own accord. You may fight to keep them ignorant, but it cannot last. They will learn, or they will die. You know this.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way! They don’t have to be in danger, if I just—”

“Just what?” it asked, smiling. “Throw yourself between them and every nightmare the world has to offer, for the rest of their lives? As fun as it would be to watch that—”

“It doesn’t have to be forever! Just until—” He stopped, jaw clicking as he snapped it shut.

It blinked, tilting its head past the point of comfort.

And in a flash, it understood.

And it laughed. Oh, how it _laughed_. It had known the night would be interesting, but it had not expected a gift like this.

“Poor thing, poor thing,” it said, brightly, joyfully. “He was loyal like you, once, before I was him. Did she ever tell you that?”

“Shut up.”

“And look at you now. Poor little graveyard terrier, waiting for its master to come home.”

“ _Shut up,_ ” he spat. “You don’t _know_ —”

“Don’t I?”

“It’s in your nature to spread fear through lies.” His eyes were not Gertrude Robinson’s eyes any longer. She never cared enough to show hatred so openly. “I don’t care what the Twisting Deceit has to say to me. Just stay away from them. They aren’t yours to toy with.”

“Of course not,” it said. “You’re doing a fine job of it already.”

Before he could reply, it vanished through a door that should not have been there. The taste of confusion and fear lingered on its palate, painting its hallways in beautiful, bleeding colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or did that statement sound [somewhat familiar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960249)?


	8. A Gradual Loss of Control

Tim got it. He really did. Taking statements was basically the main reason the archives department existed, so it wasn’t something they could half-ass. And given that Martin’s job and livelihood were _maybe_ on the line at any given moment, it was all the more reason to take it seriously. Taking statements wasn’t a conversation. Nor was it a social call.

Not even when the person giving the statement was one of their own.

And okay, fine, _technically_ this wasn’t the first time one of them had given a statement, but Jon seemed to be doing everything in his power to keep from _being_ one of them. On top of it, he’d done it in such a roundabout, oblique way that none of them even realized he was giving a statement until it was already sitting on Martin’s desk, practically tied up with a neat little bow.

This was different. This was _Sasha_. Sasha, who stumbled into the archives so early that she beat Jon there. Sasha, who came in with a bandaged arm and a look on her face like she’d fist-fought an army of ghosts just to get there.

And Tim was banished out of Martin’s office—on Sasha’s insistence, no less—because supposedly he might interrupt or get heated and otherwise ruin the recording.

“Tim, I love you, but I am _not_ doing multiple takes,” she’d said wearily, a few moments before the door shut in his face and left him fuming in the hallway outside.

Well, fine. So he couldn’t be in the room and risk losing his temper. Whatever.

He reserved the right to eavesdrop at the door.

The scrape of a footstep made him tense, because with Martin and Sasha in the office there was only one person it could possibly be (and part of Tim _hated_ that instinctive unease that bordered on hostility, raged against it in helpless frustration, because he remembered laughing at Jon’s deadpan jokes and bratty little potshots, and taking pride in just _getting him_ when it seemed like no one else could, and what happened to that, he wanted it _back_ ) before Jon stepped smoothly into his line of vision with barely a glance at him. He was holding a folder in that loose, careless way that told Tim that its contents didn’t matter, because its only purpose was to be an excuse.

“Office is off limits,” he said bluntly. “They already kicked me out. Don’t see why they’d let you in.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Jon said stiffly, tucking the useless folder under one arm.

“Then why are you still here?” Tim asked, when Jon didn’t turn and leave at the rejection.

“Because the office isn’t soundproof, and I can hear just fine.”

Irritation rose in Tim’s chest. It was one thing to see Jon treat strangers’ statements with casual contempt, but _this was Sasha_. “What do you care? You can always come back and call it fake later.”

Jon went visibly rigid, but otherwise didn’t rise to the bait. “The bandage on her arm seemed quite real to me.”

“Question still stands,” Tim scoffed, turning away. “Why do you care?”

Either Jon didn’t think that was worth an answer, or he couldn’t think of one. Tim put his ear to the crack in the door and resolved to ignore him.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the A&E?" Martin asked.

"I'm _fine_ , Martin," Sasha assured him. "The bleeding stopped awhile ago. If it starts getting infected then I'll go to the hospital, but for now, I'm okay." Seeing Martin's pained look, she took pity on him. "I'm taking the next few days off to recuperate. I just wanted to come in, make a statement while it's still fresh in my mind."

"Right, right." Martin dithered for a moment, hands hovering over his desk.

"Everything alright?" Sasha asked.

"Yeah, it's just—" Martin hesitated. "Jon's weirdly insistent on having statements taken in writing?"

Trust Jon to make things complicated. "We're just going to record it later anyway," Sasha reminded him. "Let's just cut out the middle man."

" _I'm_ the middle man, Sasha."

"And I'm saving you a job," Sasha insisted. "Come on, let's get this over with."

It took around twenty minutes to get it all out in the end, after one false start where Martin had to remind her to rehash what she'd already told him before her little outing with Michael. It was good to get it all out, and it helped that Martin was there, prompting her if she left out details or got confused about the order of things. If Sasha had tried to do this on her own, it might have been a mess. At the very least it would have felt a bit silly, speaking into a tape recorder. Martin's friendly face made it less awkward, somehow.

When it was over, he sat back to let it all sink in. Sasha wet her throat with the tea he'd pushed into her hands at the start.

"So someone tried to burn the place to the ground before you got there," he said, half to himself.

"From what I could tell, we were right on top of them, and they ran off when they heard someone coming," Sasha replied. "I must have just missed them."

"Meaning someone else knew about this. Someone else knew about the—the _flesh hive—_ " Martin wrinkled his nose in reflexive disgust. “—and was already trying to deal with it before Michael brought you.”

"Weirdly comforting, isn’t it," Sasha murmured.

Martin raised his head. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I mean… same way Gerard Keay is weirdly comforting." Sasha tapped her fingernail on the desk. "All these statements we've read. The, the real ones at least. The ones that don't record. They've always been about people being threatened by the supernatural. Menaced, hurt, hunted, even killed. But then you have your Gerard Keays and your Trevor Herberts, going around hunting the horrors. Showing up when things get dicey, dealing with the problem, and vanishing again. And I don't know if I'd lump the Michael thing in with them, but even he—it—came to me and offered to help. And now we know what can kill the worms." She paused. "I dunno. It's nice to think that…"

"That maybe not everything's out to get us?" Martin finished for her.

"Something like that, yeah." Sasha heaved a sigh. “Just wish it was easier to tell the difference.”

“We can keep looking for connections,” Martin pointed out. “See what pops up in multiple statements. Look for patterns. We might find more helpers that way.”

“Good idea.” Sasha sat up. “Well, in any case, that’s all of it. Might as well open the door, let Jon and Tim in.”

Martin blinked. “What—?”

“Oh, they’ve been eavesdropping this whole time.” Sasha jerked her thumb at the door behind her. “I heard them bickering before we got started. Kind of surprised they’ve stood next to each other that long without someone going for the throat.”

The door was flung open—probably by Tim, because Jon sort of spilled into the room like he hadn’t been expecting it. “Sasha, you wound me,” Tim announced. “I’ve been on my best behavior.”

“Um,” said Martin. “So, you two heard all of that?”

“Like I’d have missed it,” Tim said indignantly. “In fact, I _did_ miss it. Sasha, I can’t _believe_ you. You went to meet a real-life cryptid at a graveyard, and then went on an honest-to-God monster hunt, and you didn’t bring me along?”

Sasha winced. “It… seemed like a good idea at the time? I figured it’d be better if only one of us was in danger.”

“What good would that have done if you hadn’t come back at all?” Tim demanded. “We wouldn’t know anything!”

“I brought a tape recorder for that exact reason!”

Tim paused, reordering his thoughts. “You had a contingency plan in case you died. That’s—that’s _worse_. You get why that’s worse, right?”

Right. Decent point. “At least I got lucky this time?” Sasha said with a helpless shrug. “At least nothing bad—I mean, nothing _irreversibly_ bad happened.”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, and Tim, who must have had eyes on the back of his head to see it, whipped around to glare at him. “So help me, if you say one word about how it _obviously_ _none of it_ _happen_ _ed at all_ or you think she _imagined_ it—”

“That’s not even what I was going to say!” Jon spluttered.

“You have in the past,” Sasha said, a little too casually. “Didn’t realize us being coworkers made me special.”

“It’s not—I wasn’t going to—” Jon broke off, looking away with a pinched expression.

“Jon,” said Sasha, laying on an extra-thick layer of nonchalance. “Are you saying you believe me?”

Jon reddened slightly, then sighed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I mean, I _suppose_ I can’t skeptic away a stab wound.”

Tim snorted, and Sasha sucked in air through her teeth. “That is _quite_ the vote of confidence, coming from you,” she remarked. “Don’t tell me you’re getting concerned for my safety now.”

It really was too easy to rile Jon up. “Excuse me—” He stopped, huffing in irritation. “If I remember correctly, it was one of you who told me how hard it was to explain that some people care about whether others live or die—”

“Oh, that was me,” Martin said.

“Would you look at that, he can learn!” Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands upward in mock exultation. “Next he’ll be going a full ten minutes without insisting you were mugged or something.”

“I was _going_ to say,” Jon said testily, “That you might want to go to the hospital regardless of whether you think the injury’s infected. I know you just spent an entire day throwing out caution, but it’s never too late to pick it up again.”

“He _does_ have a point,” Martin said gingerly.

Jon and Martin agreeing on something—she never thought she’d see the day. “Fine, I’ll go in,” Sasha conceded. “I’ll even do it today. Promise.”

“I’ll talk to Elias about getting more fire extinguishers in here,” said Martin. “Dunno where we’ll put them all, but…”

Jon cleared his throat.

“Yes, Jon?” Martin asked, with the delicacy of a man handling a live bomb.

Jon looked slightly pained. “The, ah. The fire suppression system. It’s a sprinkler system now, but it could be changed to CO2 instead.”

“Probably should anyway,” Tim agreed. “Considering all the paper we keep down here.”

“Dunno if Elias will go for it, but…” Jon’s voice trailed off.

“It can’t hurt to ask,” said Martin. “…Thanks, Jon.”

Jon nodded stiffly, hesitated a moment longer, and left the room.

Sasha wrapped up the rest of her business there, spent a few minutes reassuring Tim that yes, she really was alright, and _yes_ , she _really was_ going straight to the hospital as soon as she left, before she finally called it a day. The over-the-counter pain meds she’d taken earlier that morning were rapidly wearing off, and her shoulder was horrendously sore. Maybe when she went to the hospital she could get a prescription for something better.

With her bag hanging from her uninjured shoulder, Sasha finally left the archives—or she meant to. She was just about to head up the stairs when, out of nowhere, Jon appeared at her elbow.

Pain made her short, and she forcibly bit down on the urge to snap at him. “Yes, Jon?”

A bit of her impatience must have leaked into her voice, because Jon’s balance seemed to waver, and he hesitated before speaking. Sasha was about to brush him off and keep going when he finally sucked in a breath and spoke in a rush, “I just wanted to ask how—how you were feeling.”

Sasha’s thoughts tripped over their own feet. “Excuse me?”

Jon averted his eyes. “I don’t know how to make myself any clearer.”

“Right, sorry, just—don’t know what I was expecting you to say, but it wasn’t that.” Sasha shook her head. “I’m… fine, I guess? Besides the shoulder. Might ask for pain meds at the hospital. Aside from that… honestly, you might as well listen to the recordings. Both of them. You’ll get a pretty clear picture of how I’m feeling from those.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jon told her. “I _mean_ , how are you feeling after giving a statement?”

Sasha frowned. “Should I be feeling a certain way about it? That’s a weird question, Jon, I’m not going to lie.”

“It’s just—” Another false start. “I’ve seen plenty of people give statements before, and in my experience, the reactions afterward are… varied.” At Sasha’s confused look, he pushed onward. “Some seem to find it cathartic and helpful, some find it invasive and uncomfortable, and in the worst case scenario, some—” He verbally stumbled again. “There’s a risk of re-traumatizing oneself, in some cases. So I thought I’d ask.”

“Oh,” Sasha said faintly, as Jon’s intentions finally sunk in. “I… wow. Okay. That’s—thank you for asking? I think I really am fine, though.”

Jon met her eyes briefly. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know if I’d classify last night as _traumatic,_ in the first place.” Sasha paused. “Unpleasant, definitely. I’ll even give you scary. But I really am fine. And as for giving a statement—well, if you’d actually given yours properly, then you’d know that it’s pretty impossible to traumatize yourself talking to Martin. You should really try it sometime.” Jon winced, which slapped Sasha in the face with her own callousness. “Oh, God—sorry, that was… I didn’t mean to trivialize what you went through, or your reaction to it—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Jon assured her. He didn’t seem upset; if anything, he looked relieved. “I know what you mean.”

“Right. Good.” Sasha relaxed. “But as for how I’m feeling, specifically… I don’t know. I came in to tell Martin—to tell all of you what I found out last night, about the CO2. And I’ve done that. That’s pretty much the extent of how I feel about it.”

“I see,” Jon murmured. “Right. Well, I’m glad it wasn’t stressful.”

“What about you?”

Jon blinked. “Me?”

“You doing alright?” Sasha asked. “You were sort of… I dunno, _patient zero_ when it comes to dealing with worms. And now that I’ve had a run-in with them, you’re being weirdly nice about it—”

“Is it _really_ that weird that I’m concerned for your safety?”

“It’s not exactly a baseline for you,” Sasha admitted. “You’ve been marginally more personable since you came back from being trapped in your flat, and now here you are, encouraging me to go to the hospital and asking after my mental health. I’m not saying it’s unreasonable at all, just that it’s sort of unusual for _you_.”

Something flickered in his eyes. It almost looked like dismay. “Well, this _is_ the first time you’ve found your way into mortal danger,” he said.

“Point,” Sasha conceded. “And hey, it’s like you said before. Never too late to pick it up. Whether it’s caution or, you know, basic decency.”

She kept her voice light. She meant it as a joke. But instead of acknowledging it as such, or even getting irritated with her for making light of the situation, Jon simply looked thoughtful.

“I suppose not,” he said quietly. Then the moment passed, and he stood up straighter and stepped away. “In any case, I won’t keep you.”

Sasha was abruptly pulled back from the weird mental space that Jon’s mood had dragged her into. “Right. See you later then.” He nodded distractedly, and they parted ways at the stairs.

In a few days, she would come back to work with her shoulder healed and the mortal danger well behind her. For the life of her, Sasha couldn’t decide whether it would be more comforting if Jon was back to normal then, or if this odd tenderness continued.

* * *

Martin stood back and re-counted the canisters.

He had fifteen in all. After talking with Elias, Martin had come away with the impression that he could conceivably ask for more if he really wanted to, but for now fifteen seemed reasonable.

Thus far he had been keeping them in his office, but that wasn’t right at all. Obviously he wanted to keep at least a few close, but it would be wrong to hoard them, especially since his own work space was only a small part of the whole archives. Not like he could use fifteen of them at once, anyway.

Logically, the majority of them should go in the main office where the others worked, since that was the largest area and, for the most part, had the most people in it at any given time. Maybe he ought to place a few strategically in the hallways as well. And a few for document storage—though maybe not as many, since that room _was_ climate-controlled and airtight, and therefore the least likely to be invaded.

Where to put them, though? Somewhere out of the way so no one tripped on them, probably. And out in the open, where they were clearly visible and anyone could see them and grab them if necessary.

No, no, that wasn’t right. If he didn’t at least try to hide them, then the worms would know they were there, and that was its own problem—

Wait a minute—

The door opened before he could complete the thought, with Tim’s characteristic lack of regard for common courtesy. “Boss, you’re not gonna believe this.”

“Mm what?” Martin nearly tripped over one of the canisters. “What’s happening?”

“Well, someone’s here to give a statement,” Tim began.

“That’s… not that hard to believe?”

“She got here without being accosted by Jon again,” Tim went on.

“Slightly harder to believe, but I think Jon’s been doing better lately?”

“I’ll give him that,” Tim conceded. “It’s Melanie King.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Melanie King is here to give a statement,” said Tim, straight-faced.

“Melanie King.”

“Yes.”

“Semi-famous Youtuber Melanie King.”

“That’s her.”

Martin stared at him, mouth agape. “And you said Jon _didn’t_ stop her at the door?”

“See, that’s why I was shocked, because her show’s the exact kind of delightful spooky nonsense that he’d hate,” Tim said, grinning. “But no, he stepped out before she got here, and Sasha’s with her in case he comes back. Want me to keep him occupied while she’s here? It’d probably be good to at least _try_ to make a good impression.”

Martin cast a look around at his hopelessly cluttered office, complete with the pile of CO2 canisters taking up floorspace, and shook his head. “Just send her in, I’ve got a tape recorder ready.”

“Will do!” Tim ducked out again, giving Martin less than a minute to make any attempt at tidying up.

Truth be told, Martin wasn’t sure what to expect. Only three people had given statements so far in his brief tenure as head archivist, and of them, two were on his team, and the third he hadn’t even properly seen, only spoken with over the phone after the fact. But Melanie King, who came striding in as he was nudging a pile of papers into a proper stack, was nothing like what little he remembered of Naomi.

Naomi had been brittle, grieving, and quietly afraid. When Melanie stepped fully into the office, she glanced around the room as if evaluating it and finding it lacking.

“I’m here to give you a statement,” she said bluntly. “This is the place, right? The guy who pointed me in here looked like the type who makes bad jokes.”

“Er, yes, this is the place,” Martin replied, caught off guard. “Thank you for coming in, just have a seat—would you like some tea?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “No thanks, I really just want to give you the statement and leave.”

“Oh, right, well—just let me set up the recorder.” Martin reached for it, wincing when he remembered how clunky and old-fashioned it was. Some people appreciated retro tech the way he did, others didn’t, and considering the production value of Melanie’s show, she was probably in the latter camp. “Sorry if it’s a bit old-fashioned—are you sure you won’t sit down?”

Melanie sighed, clearly impatient. “No need, I’ve got it right here.” She shrugged out of her backpack and set it down in the chair instead, then dug through it and pulled out a small stack of pages held together with a paperclip. “I meant it literally; my statement’s already written out, so I can just give it to you and save everyone the time. Is there a form I could fill out and attach it to?”

“…Oh.” Martin tried not to sound too put out. “Er, right, let me just grab one for you…” Statement forms were in his top drawer, and he pulled out a copy and handed it over along with a pen. Rather than sitting down, she leaned over his desk to fill it out.

Silence fell immediately, broken only by the scratch of her pen.

Martin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m, uh, big fan of your work,” he said.

“Thanks.” Melanie flashed a smug grin down at the page she was filling out.

“Sort of surprised more people in your line of work don’t make statements.”

Melanie scoffed. “I’m not.”

“S-sorry?”

“Most people in my ‘line of work’ only go after well-documented supernatural phenomena,” Melanie said dismissively. “Sure, sometimes it’s a little camp, but we do have reputations to uphold. I mean, if it got out that _I_ was paying the Magnus Institute a visit, people in the business would think twice about working with me.”

“What’s wrong with the Magnus Institute?” Martin asked, a bit defensively. “This place researches the supernatural, same as you.”

“Yeah, it takes in every story, whether it’s true or verifiable or not. Anyone drunk, drugged up, dreaming, or traumatized enough to swear they saw a ghost can come in. Not a great way to build up cred, that’s all.”

Martin found himself bristling. “Everyone deserves to be heard,” he said tightly. “And anyway, if that’s what you think of the Magnus Institute, then what are _you_ doing here?”

Melanie bridled, eyes snapping up to lock on his face in a flash of temper. Martin held her gaze, and was rewarded when she looked away first.

“Never said anything about what I thought,” she said gruffly. “Just what this place’s reputation is. That’s all.” She finished the form, signed at the bottom, and slipped it into the paperclip with the rest of her written statement. Then she pushed it toward him and stood up again. “Here. Have fun with that.”

“Right. Thank you,” Martin said, stiff with forced politeness. And then, because he wasn’t raised in a barn, he stood up to see her out.

And then, because Martin had the worst luck, they had barely made it to the stairs when Jon came down from the ground floor. For a split second his mind shuffled through possible diversions to keep the two of them from clashing.

And then Melanie opened her mouth first.

“Sims,” she said coolly.

“King,” he replied, without looking up from his phone.

Martin gaped.

“I see you deigned to come down after all,” Jon remarked.

“And I see _you_ haven’t been eaten by worms yet.”

“I assure you, you’ll be the first to know if that changes. Did you—”

“In writing,” Melanie interrupted. “Still couch surfing?”

Jon put his phone down and looked at her at last. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

The grin on Melanie’s face was nothing short of wolfish. “What? You’re rooming with your ex and I can’t be nosy about it?”

“And that’s _definitely_ none of your business.”

“Fine,” Melanie said dispassionately. “See if I ever call a government agency to rescue you in your hour of need again.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.” Jon returned to his phone. “Have fun screaming at abandoned buildings for the internet.”

“I _will_.” Melanie craned her neck to follow him as he walked away. “Hey! Are we still on for game night?”

“If we must,” Jon replied, and was gone.

“Prick,” Melanie called after him with undeniable grudging fondness.

Martin _gaped_.

* * *

Sasha drifted out of her research-fueled fugue to the sound of shouting from the main office. It took a moment for her brain to process words. Tim was shouting—Martin too? Did something happen? She’d only just left them alone after supposedly guarding Melanie King against possible incursions by Jon (and really, they were probably past that, Tim had a real problem with holding grudges sometimes) and now they were having a row, from the sound of it.

“— _never even thought to mention it—_ “

“ _—_ _what do you mean it wasn’t relevant—_ ”

“— _Melanie King! The Youtuber! I can’t believe you—_ ”

A door opened somewhere behind her, and she sighed and rubbed her face tiredly. “What happened this time?” she asked. “Swear I can’t leave you all alone for five minutes without—”

She stopped. Blinked.

She was in document storage. Document storage only had one door. She knew this, because she was currently facing that door.

Behind her, a door that should not have been there creaked as it swung shut.

Slowly, Sasha turned around.

The wall at the back of the room was flat, solid, and bare, as it had been when she first walked in. Nearly everything about it was exactly as she remembered it.

Nearly.

Sitting on the floor, tucked right up against the wall, was a single folder. Sasha went to retrieve it, and found it full of rumpled pages. Institute letterhead, with a format she recognized perfectly well.

“Statement 0131103,” she read to herself, under her breath. “Jennifer Ling.”

She skimmed the statement. Her eyebrows rose.

* * *

It wasn’t often that Martin recorded statements while there were other people in the room.

Truth be told, he sort of dreaded recording statements. The irony was not lost on him. When he’d first started out as head archivist, he had fought Jon tooth and nail just for the right to do it unimpeded. It hadn’t taken him much time to spot the pattern with the ones that didn’t record digitally, and that led to a quietly raging battle to keep every one he found, because if he didn’t, Jon would find a way to make them vanish.

And after all that, when it came down to actually recording them, he had to force himself to pull out the tape recorder. On his best days he could only manage a few before checking out and drinking his weight in tea to stop his hands from shaking. God forbid he let people see him like that.

But this was Sasha’s find—though she was vague on the details of exactly how she’d found it—and she was sort of excited about it, so he was making an exception about it now.

It was standard stuff, so far. Urban legend about a mysterious disappearing-reappearing band, musical performances that people claimed would drive you mad, that sort of thing. But, Sasha assured him, the good bit was coming.

And, sure enough, it did.

“I arrived in Soho in the afternoon,” Jennifer Ling’s statement read. “I figured I’d wander the streets for a while, make note of all the performers scheduled for that night. It wasn’t much of a plan, but I didn’t have anything better to do.

“It didn’t take me long to feel a bit foolish. The music scene in Soho has more underground unknowns than you'd know what to do with, and I had almost nothing to go on. Just my coworker's description of an old man in a strange coat, and a vague post on my article that may or may not have been a hoax. So after enough time had passed without a promising lead, I decided to watch the people around me instead. I started really listening, trying to pick up conversations without making it obvious that I was eavesdropping. I figured, Earful.com has a decent readership. I couldn’t have been the only one to see that post. There must have been others like me, wandering the streets of Soho for a glimpse of an urban legend in real life.

“The sun was still up when I spotted them. Not Grifter’s Bone. I don’t know who they were, and I don’t think I ever will. They didn't really stand out, by themselves. Or I mean, they wouldn't have stood out, if they were by themselves. But because they were together, I couldn't help but notice them.

‘Study in contrasts.’ That's the phrase that popped into my head when I saw them.

“One of them was tall, lanky, and goth. And I mean, full goth. Long black hair, probably dyed, lots of eyeliner, helix piercings, leather coat, combat boots, Cure t-shirt, the works. Not too out of place in Soho, but then there was his partner.

“He was—I mean, he was nothing like any of that. The opposite in almost every way. He was a full head shorter, dressed in a cardigan over a collared button-down, with a battered messenger bag over one shoulder. No makeup, no jewelry, just a pair of glasses. He looked like he'd just stepped out of class at Oxford.

“And there they were, practically arm in arm. I almost wanted a picture of them, but, you know. That would've been weird.

“Anyway, I guess I wasn't being as subtle as I thought I was, because the goth looked up and spotted me staring, and his Oxford friend saw him looking at me and looked too, and it was my own bad luck that put me too close to them to turn away and pretend it was a coincidence. So I did my best to look friendly and apologetic, and decided to try and get some information from them, at least.

“As I stepped closer, I noticed there was something funny about the way the goth was looking at me. Now, I’ve been stared at by creepy guys before, but it didn’t feel like that. When I looked him in the eye, I felt like a bug under a microscope. Like he was trying to read my mind, and was sort of succeeding. It was like, just for that moment, I couldn’t hide anything from him.

“It made me realize how _scared_ I was to be there. Alone in not the best part of town, sun going down, following a vague online post that anyone could have made for any reason, chasing after an urban legend that supposedly mutilated my coworker’s ears. I tried to swallow my nervousness, but it just—it wouldn’t go down. I just had to live with it.

“I don’t remember what I said. Some blandly polite small talk, just to break up the awkwardness of a couple of total strangers staring at each other in public. I still wanted to see if they knew anything, and I didn’t want to take too long getting around to asking. They seemed impatient, like they had somewhere to be, so I just sort of asked them, ‘Date night?’ Which was probably a bit personal, but I needed to lead into asking where they were going somehow, and I didn’t want to drag things out any longer than I had to.

“And you know—they _laughed_. Well, the goth laughed. The Oxford-looking one just looked sort of amused, and I couldn’t tell if he was more amused by what I’d said or how his partner was reacting.

“I’ll say this, though, I don’t think they were laughing at me for being wrong. It was more like the idea that they were on a date was somehow incredibly funny to them, in an inside joke sort of way. Before I could say anything, Goth turned to Oxford and said, ‘Is that what this is? Are we on a date?’ And he answered, ‘I suppose it is. We _are_ going to a concert together, after all,’ which made him laugh again.

“And they were sort of grinning at each other, sharing this joke between them, when I took a chance and chimed in with, “Not Grifter’s Bone, I hope.”

“It was the wrong thing to say. The second it left my mouth, their smiles were gone. And then we were staring at each other all over again, only this time it was different. We were all looking at each other’s faces and knowing what the answers to our questions were.

“Maybe I could have played it off as a joke. Laughed awkwardly, pretended I wasn’t serious. But by the time I thought of it, I’d been silent too long. I couldn’t hide it from either of them.

“God he was tall. The goth, I mean. He stood sort of hunched over, like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t, but, you know, I’m pretty small already so he towered over me no matter how much he didn’t seem to want to. He was the one who stepped forward in the end, looked me in the eye, and told me to go home.

“I started to tell him that I was working, I was here for my job, but he cut me off and said it wasn’t worth it. That whatever I was looking for, I wasn’t going to find what I wanted. That there was nothing worth finding at all.

“…Have you read long-time nuclear waste warnings? Those messages meant for waste storage facilities? ‘This is not a place of honor.’ ‘Nothing of value is here.’ ‘It’s dangerous and repulsive.’ That sort of thing. They’re meant to last 10,000 years, you know. For people who may not even know what nuclear waste is anymore. To communicate a danger to people who might find the nature of that danger incomprehensible.

“That was the feeling he gave me—that they _both_ gave me.

“I finally just agreed with him, just to end the conversation. I don’t think he believed me, but he finally turned away, and it was like I could breathe again without feeling like it was too loud. Neither of them looked at me again. They just left me there, without another word.

“I tried to follow them, of course. But they weren’t having it. They must have known I would try, and they led me on a twisting route through side streets and alleys and crowds they could easily disappear in. Finally I emerged back onto the main road, looked around, and couldn’t find them anywhere. I went back and forth over several blacks, retraced my steps, anything I could think of. But it was no use. I was alone again, back to square one. I’d lost a lot of time talking to them and trying to follow them. It was getting dark. I probably should’ve given up then and there.

“But, you know, I didn’t. Obviously I didn’t, or I wouldn’t be here now.

“It was almost by chance. I was standing outside some new-age spiritual shop. You know, crystals and tarot and chakras and stuff. I just happened to look up from my phone, and… there he was. An old man in a loose brown coat, like Lee had said. There were others around him, all of them carrying instruments.

“What else could I do? I followed them.

“They followed the street for about ten minutes, before they finally went down a flight of stairs and into a basement jazz club. I didn’t recognize it, and I don’t remember its name. When I got over my nerves enough to follow them, I could see why. It wasn’t very popular, and there were so few patrons that I could count them easily. There were thirteen—most were dressed for a night of jazz, but a few had on heavier coats for the weather, and two of them… well, I guess it won’t surprise you too much to know that two of them were the couple I’d met earlier.

“They spotted me almost immediately. They didn’t look surprised to see me, either. Just… disappointed. I remember spotting the taller one first, because his hair and clothes and makeup made him stand out in that bar. He looked… honestly he looked _sad_ to see me there.

“That did change, though. See, Lee may not have given me a lot to go off of, but he did tell me enough for me to know that sticking around for the performance probably wasn’t a good idea. So I found an alcove near the entrance, one with a good view of the stage, and set up my phone to record a video of the performance. While I was checking the microphone, I looked over to the couple again. I was just in time to spot the relief on their faces. Oxford caught my eye one last time before I left, and when he saw that I was looking at him, he placed his hands over his ears for a moment. Then they both turned away to watch the stage, and from across the room, I could see that they were wearing earplugs.

“I left the club, then went to the top of the steps and waited.

“I don’t know how long it was—I’d left my phone down there, after all. And now I was outside, alone in the cold, no way to call for help, just… waiting. And then I wasn’t sure what to do if nothing happened. Leave? Risk going back down for my phone? That was the worst part, the waiting. The wondering. Until, all of a sudden, I didn’t have to wait anymore.

“The street was quiet, so there was nothing stopping me from hearing it. And even if there was, I doubt it would’ve mattered. I think I’d have heard that music over rush-hour traffic. It was crystal clear from the first note, and I don’t have perfect pitch or anything, but somehow I just _knew_ that it was perfect. I think it was a cello at first, before a guitar joined it in harmony, and all the rest of the instruments I’d seen them setting up, I could now hear. And it was _beautiful_.

“You know, I listen to a lot of music, I’ve been to live performances—it’s my job, you know? But this—this urban legend playing in some unknown jazz club in Soho was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I even reached up to my ears at some point, just to check. No blood. Just crisp November air and hauntingly beautiful music.

“And then the screaming started.

“It didn’t build up from one voice. One moment the music was playing, and the next, an eruption of voices were nearly drowning it out. There was crashing, like a struggle, or a fight, punctuated by ragged screams of—of pain, and horror, and, and _anger_. And all the while the music played on.

“I was—God, I was petrified. Standing still was unbearable, I wanted to do _something_ —run away, call for help, go down and see what was happening, I don’t know. I thought of all the people I’d seen down there, the people who were only out to listen to music, the couple that tried to warn me off. They were all down there, in the middle of that. They were the ones screaming. But I didn’t know what to do, so I just… stood there. Looking back, it wasn’t even that long. Not even ten seconds. But it felt like forever.

“For some reason, I remembered what I saw Oxford do before I left—place his hands over his ears. Maybe that was a warning not to listen to the music, and it was already too late for that, but it still helped to block out the screams.

“Almost the second I covered my ears, there was this—this sound. I’m not sure what it was. It was as high and piercing as feedback, but louder. Much louder. Even with my hands pressed over my ears, it still hurt. And when it was finally over, and I got up the nerve to put my hands down, the screams had stopped. And more importantly, the music had stopped.

“I don’t think it finished. The melody didn’t end. It just stopped. There were more crashes, the sounds of heavy objects breaking, more struggling, but—no voices. And soon, even that came to an end. The street was silent again. I was alone. Whatever had happened down there, I was the only one who heard it.

“I don’t know how long I stood out there, frozen, waiting for the music to start again, waiting for more screams. But finally, when enough time had passed for me to breathe again, and move again, I went back down. It wasn’t smart. Whoever was left down there could have killed me, but I had to know. I had to.

“I opened the door, and the club was silent except for footsteps, and whispering. The people in the audience all lay motionless on the floor, piled on top of each other, and in the dull red light it was hard to tell that they were covered in blood.

“Eleven people. I knew that without having to count, because there had been thirteen when I left, and two of them were up on the stage.

“It was that couple, of course. There wasn’t a spot of blood on either of them. Oxford was doing something with the sound equipment, unplugging something from a speaker and shoving it in his bag. The goth was pacing some distance away, stepping carefully over the musicians.

“All of them, including the old man I assumed to be Alfred Grifter, were lying motionless on the stage, next to the shattered remains of their instruments. As I ventured closer, I could see blood on them, too. It was leaking out of their ears.

“Oxford finished whatever he was doing to the speakers. The goth was already watching me, but they must have signaled each other somehow, because Oxford didn’t look surprised when he turned and saw me. Before I could think of what to do, he jumped off the stage and walked over to me, one hand in his pocket. I was ready to bolt, but instead of a weapon, he pulled out my phone and offered it to me.

“‘Call 999, please.’ That’s all he said. As if we weren’t standing in the middle of _that_.

“What else could I do? I took my phone, I left that place, and I called 999 and told them where to go. I didn’t tell them what happened, just gave the address for the club and hung up. And then I left, and I never saw them again.

“When I got home and checked the video, it was only twenty seconds long. It showed a clear view of the stage, with the musicians still setting up their instruments. And it showed Oxford approaching and picking my phone up before it abruptly ended.

“There was a news story about it—eleven people involved in a drunken brawl in a Soho jazz club. No mention of Grifter’s Bone, or the two extra people who had been in the audience.

“Part of me is a little disappointed. But mostly, I just feel relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I wish I knew what happened that night, but I think I’m better off in the dark. I think I escaped something that night, and if I press my luck then I might not escape it a second time.”

Martin sat back. “Statement ends.” He felt out of breath, though not the kind of out of breath that came from reading aloud for too long. He felt out of breath as if he’d been there, waiting in the cold outside a jazz club, listening to people scream.

“You alright?” Sasha asked.

_God_ , he hated this. But Martin nodded anyway.

Because really. This was a _very_ good find after all.

“Gerard Keay,” he murmured under his breath, half aware of the tape recorder still running. “Had to be him, right?”

“How many lanky goths running around dealing with the supernatural can there be?” Sasha pointed out. “And that’s not all. He’s even got a friend in this one. Or boyfriend, probably.”

Martin sighed deeply. “That’s one more mysterious figure to watch out for, I suppose. Maybe in one of these things we’ll find his name.”

Sasha hummed to herself, silent and thoughtful. “That last Gerard Keay statement. William Stratton. There was another mysterious unnamed figure in that one too, right? Think they might have been the same guy?”

“Dunno.” Martin frowned. “Might help to compare time frames. When did the Stratton one happen again?”

“I’ve still got it on my desk,” Sasha said, bounding to her feet. “I’ll go grab it.”

“Oh—hang on.” Martin rose from his chair as well, grabbing Jennifer Ling’s statement as he went. “I’ll come with you. You’ve got all the Keay statements together, right? We might as well add this one to the pile.”

“Right, come on then—the box is over in document storage.”

* * *

When Tim came down from the break room, he found Martin’s office door ajar. After a moment of silence to confirm that Martin wasn’t recording, he went over to give a cursory knock and let himself in.

“Hey boss, d’you know why Elias called Jon into his office? Jon certainly didn’t look happy about—” The room was empty. “Huh.”

He was about to leave when he registered two things: a worm wriggling on the floor, and the telltale whir of a tape recorder. Tim stepped on the bug, wrinkling his nose at the sickening crunch, before turning to deal with the recorder. It was sitting on Martin’s desk, recording an empty room; Martin must have forgot to shut the thing off. Tim grabbed it, frowning as he looked for the stop button on the thing—

_Thud._

“Huh?” Whatever that was, it sounded heavy.

Footsteps followed—not Martin, Sasha, or Jon’s footsteps either. None of them ever sounded that big. Tim turned to go back out to the hallway, only for the door to swing open again, nearly whacking him in the face.

Two men stepped in, smoothly carrying a sizable crate between them.

“Scuse us.”

“Looking for the Archivist.”

“Um,” said Tim.

“Says right here.”

“‘Package for Martin Blackwood.’”

Was one of them taller than the other? Did they look the same? “Right, well, he just stepped out—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Won’t take up your time.”

No. They didn’t look the same. But they did look _familiar._ “Wait a minute, have I see you two before—?”

“Doubt it.”

“Would remember delivering to you.”

They were already turning to go, and every alarm bell in Tim’s head was screaming warnings. “Okay, but wait, how’d you get past Rosie—”

“Have to be going.”

“Stay safe.”

“Wait a minute—” Tim barked out.

“You’re recorder’s on, by the way.”

And then they were gone.

Tim should have given chase. It made more sense than not. He should go after them, stop them, at least get names or identifying features beyond “big” and “weird” and “Cockney, but probably fake”.

But

He _knew_ them.

How did he know them?

He couldn’t have met them before. No, he’d remember hearing those godawful accents. So he must have only seen them. But how could you see someone without meeting them?

In a photo?

Tim went rigid. The connection slid into place in his mind, the way a knife slides between the ribs.

The book. The Circus.

The _strongmen_.

“Hey. _Hey!_ ”

He ran out of the office, too late. Up the stairs, too late. Out into the hallway, out the door, down the steps to the road—too late, too late, _too goddamn late_.

* * *

Sasha had sworn never to set foot in Artifact Storage again, but that didn’t stop her from swinging by from time to time—when she had a moment, of course—to say hello to old coworkers. Sonja was lovely, if impassive and blunt to almost worrying levels, but Sasha couldn’t hold that against her. You didn’t get to be in charge of Artifact Storage—hell, you didn’t _survive_ Artifact Storage, if you gave any fucks whatsoever.

Case in point, as she approached the front desk during her break. Jon had a way of pushing all the right buttons, so seeing him arguing heatedly while Sonja barely seemed to pay him any mind was… almost funny, to be perfectly honest.

“Jon, calm down,” Sasha said automatically as she approached. “What’s going on?”

Jon rounded on her, opening his mouth to reply, but Sonja beat him to it. “He wants in, and Elias says no.” Jon turned back to scowl at her, but Sonja didn’t appear to notice or care.

“Okay, two questions. Jon, what could you _possibly_ want in Artifact Storage?”

“The _delivery,_ ” Jon spat. “The table that showed up in the archives before Elias had it whisked off to Artifact Storage.”

Oh. That. Tim was still seething about that. And now it had Jon on edges, too? “Right, okay. Sonja—”

“Won’t say I know _exactly_ why Elias told me to ban him from Artifact Storage,” Sonja replied. “But, if I were to guess, it’s _probably_ because of the screaming match they had about it before Jon came storming over here.”

Jon looked affronted. “Screaming? No one was screaming. I certainly wasn’t.”

"Well, be that as it may, you've got him convinced you'll take an axe to this thing if I let you in."

"I _wouldn't—_ " Jon stopped.

He just stopped. Sonja paid little mind, but Sasha's eyes were fixed on Jon as he stood still and rigid at the entrance to Artifact Storage, fingers curling and uncurling into fists. She tried to follow his line of vision, but he didn't seem to be looking at anything, just glaring forward as if he could read the answers to his problems on Sonja's desk.

"Jon…?" Sasha said cautiously.

Without another word, Jon shouldered past her and stormed away.

He spent the next few hours buried in document boxes. Sasha left him to it.

* * *

Martin nearly spilled both mugs when he walked into his office and met Jon coming out.

"J-Jon? What are you—?" God, he wasn't stealing statements from his desk again, was he? Martin thought they were _past_ that. "Um, I just made some tea if you—" Jon was already gone. "—want… any…"

He turned to his desk, and to his faint surprise he found more statements on his desk, not less. Maybe that was a good sign?

Or maybe not. Another one of Jon's old tactics was to switch out whatever statement he was working on for a false one. The kind that recorded to the computer.

"Right," he murmured. Picking the statement from the top of the pile Jon had left him, he pulled up the digital recording program for the first time in…

Well, in a while.

He read off a sample of it before playing it back, fully prepared to hear his own voice crystal clear. Instead, he hit play, and was met with a grating shriek of static before he shut it off again.

For a few moments he simply sat and stared, still holding the statement.

The real statement. Jon had left him a real statement.

He looked down at his desk again.

Jon had left him _several_ real statements.

As he turned on the recorder and put in a fresh tape, he felt something uncurl around him, eager and satisfied. Suppressing a deep, full-body shudder, he started again.

"Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0070107. Statement of Amy Patel, given July 1, 2007. Statement begins…"


	9. Most Valuable

It wasn’t that Sasha hadn’t learned her lesson from the thing with Michael. On the contrary, she had learned a great deal from it. She just hadn’t learned what Martin and Tim probably hoped she would.

It had been three days since Jon left those statements on Martin's desk. They all read them, though Martin was dawdling on recording them. As usual, she and Tim split the followup work, with Jon slipping in at odd intervals to direct them toward old supplemental notes they might have missed. Surprisingly helpful of him, though he never stuck around long enough for them to properly question him. In fact, since dropping those statements into their laps, Jon had been like a ghost around the office, periodically vanishing and leaving nothing but empty mugs and spent pens in his wake.

Sasha kept track of him in her head, more so than usual. By now her reputation leaned pretty hard toward reckless snooping, especially where Jon was concerned, and she wanted to make damn sure she had something before she brought it to the others' attention.

But if they hadn't figured it out yet, then they were either distracted or kidding themselves. To Sasha, every glaring inconsistency now stuck out like a neon sign, blinking arrows leading in the same direction.

Jon worked closely with the last archivist, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Jon had been secretive and hostile ever since the rest of them showed up to work in the archives. Jon was attacked by Jane Prentiss and seemed perfectly content to handle it himself, until she came straight to the institute. A mysterious table showed up on their metaphorical doorstep, and Jon lost his temper with Elias about it before dumping a stack of relevant statements on Martin’s desk.

As far as Sasha knew, he hadn’t even bothered coming up with excuses for the last one, or twisting the whole thing into an elaborate show of skepticism.

So, Jon knew more than he was letting on. She'd bet her life on it. It all made sense—the last person to work in this place had been Gertrude Robinson, now missing and presumed dead, and all she had left behind were a jumbled, disorganized archive and one surly, reticent assistant.

Sasha sat at her desk, frowning until her forehead ached. The clues were there, but only enough of them to confirm that the mystery existed, not to solve it outright. It was like trying to figure out the picture on a jigsaw puzzle when all you had were five pieces and a corner of the box. She needed _more_. And given his track record, she wasn’t about to count on Jon to give it to her.

But, she had options. Snooping on Jon, interrogating Jon, questioning Jon's weirder moves—they'd been going about this all wrong. Snooping got them to a point but made him clam up around them even more than before. Interrogating him made him belligerent or purposely vague. The only times Jon ever volunteered information were times they hadn't known to ask for it. He'd done it on his own, when he felt like it.

Well, Sasha wasn't interested in waiting for him to toss them more hints on a whim. And so far, no one else had pointed out that Jon was not Gertrude's only assistant over her tenure as Head Archivist.

As far as Sasha knew, Gertrude hadn't had other assistants _alongside_ Jon, but that didn't mean her former assistants wouldn't know anything useful. Supplemental notes on various old statements bore unfamiliar names and initials, and anyone who spent time researching these things had to have picked up on something.

There was MS, whose full name she still didn't know. Sarah Carpenter and Fiona Law's names had also appeared in a few statement notes. She was sure there were more beyond that; Gertrude had worked here for decades.

So, she turned to another strategy. An oldie but a goodie. Honestly, she wasn't sure why she hadn't tried this before.

As always, the institute's digital security was abysmal. Elias should probably fix that if he didn't want to get sued—as long as he did it after she was done, of course.

Just for fun, she checked Jon’s records first. There wasn’t much that she didn’t already know. June 26, 2014 was the date of his transfer from Research to Archives, but thanks to Tim, she knew that he had already been working for Gertrude unofficially for at least a year before then. He was the only assistant listed at the time, which she knew; his transfer had marked the end of a… sort of dry period for Gertrude, at least regarding official on-paper assistants.

That period, Sasha discovered, had lasted for years. Even before Tim’s estimate for when Jon had started working with Gertrude, the old woman had gone an awful long time without help.

And that was baffling, frankly. Because the Archives were a _lot_. It was a lot of work just for four people, much less one old woman. And yes, her brief impression of Gertrude Robinson had been one of cold, hard, take-no-shit competence, but there was quite a bit of difference between being competent, and running an entire department single-handed with no staff.

Then again, Jon had been working for her unofficially before transferring, so maybe she did have help, just not on paper. Maybe she was working with people who weren’t even on the institute’s payroll. Jon might know, but asking Jon about it would get her nowhere.

So. Former assistants. Maybe she could scrounge up some phone numbers, see if Fiona or Sarah or M had anything to say about it.

Not a half hour later, Sasha let her head fall to her desk with a gentle thud.

“Is everything alright?” Martin’s voice made her jump, and she raised her head again to find him standing over her, retrieving her empty mug. “You look like you need a refill.”

Sasha rubbed her eyes, bleary from glaring at the screen in the hopes of changing what was on it. “If you happen to slip something extra into it, I probably wouldn’t complain.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘something extra.’ Are we talking about absinthe or arsenic?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” said Martin, without missing a beat. “Well, you’ll have to settle for breakfast tea from the break room.”

“I’ll cope somehow,” said Sasha. “Thank you, Martin, you’re a wonderful human being.” As his footsteps receded from the room, she funneled her energy back into glaring at the results of her research. There was simultaneously so much to find, and not nearly enough.

Fiona Law, one of Gertrude's first assistants, inherited from her predecessor Angus Stacey, passed away from complications following a liver transplant in 2003. Sarah Carpenter, transferred from Research as her replacement, died in a mysterious fire in 2007. Emma Harvey, transferred to Archives alongside Gertrude, died in a different, but equally mysterious fire in 2007. Eric Delano, another of Gertrude's first, quit the institute in 1987 and promptly dropped off the face of the earth. Michael Shelley, MS himself, was reported missing in 2007 by his landlord.

2007 was a great year to be an archival assistant, apparently. More to the point, it marked the last time Gertrude _had_ assistants before Jon’s transfer.

Could be self-explanatory. If she lost all her people in a short period of time, maybe she wasn’t keen on bringing others into the line of fire.

Just for fun, Sasha checked up on Angus Stacey and his assistants—surely Fiona hadn't been the only one. She wished she could be surprised to find unsolved deaths across the board, except for the two reported missing in 1965 and 1970.

Sasha sat back, letting out a heavy sigh. This… really didn't bode well for the four of them, did it. Maybe that was why Jon was so up his own ass with skepticism. Could just be a coping mechanism against the looming spectre of his own mortality.

Eric Delano, though. So far, he seemed to be the only one to actually quit the archives. She could find no records of him after 1987, but no records also meant no death certificate. He, at least, had a chance of still being alive.

Smart man. He hadn't even needed to see his three remaining coworkers get picked off to know to cut and run. Maybe he'd know more besides that, if she managed to find him.

Sasha pulled up Delano's employee file. There was a picture included—handsome man, or at least he had been in 1975 when his employee photo was taken. And hey, according to his profile he had actual LIS training. Maybe that was why he cut his losses and got out—the flagrant disregard for proper archival practices got to him.

Listlessly, Sasha picked up her mug—when had Martin brought it back? She couldn’t remember—and went through the other photos. Emma Harvey had been around Gertrude's age, already old when she died. Fiona Law was already getting on in years when Gertrude first took over the archives, and well past retirement age by the time she disappeared.

Sasha paused, frowning. That was odd. Ignoring danger signs was one thing, but why stay _that long?_ Were they just that dedicated to storing old statements?

She wondered how old Michael Shelley had been when he—

The photo on his employee record loaded. Sasha almost spat tea all over her keyboard.

* * *

The employees at the cafe were beginning to recognize her, but Sasha couldn’t bring herself to care. There was frankly nothing on earth that could convince her to go back to that graveyard, or the pub where Timothy Hodge died, so the cafe was her only lead. And so, every day during her lunch hour, Sasha went in, sat at the same table, and waited.

It made her wait a week. Either it hadn’t noticed, or it liked watching her squirm.

When it came for her, Sasha knew. She was staring down at her coffee and pastry, not looking at the doors or through the windows to the street outside, and she _knew_. It wasn’t a prickle up the back of her neck, it was just…

Ha. It was just like a melody. Not something she could have hummed—more like the feeling you get when a song plays on the radio forty times in a row, winds down, and begins to start again.

When she looked up, it was sitting across from her, watching her.

“Finally,” she blurted out before she could think better of it.

If it was offended, it gave no indication. “You are persistent,” said Michael. “Are you certain that _you_ are not the archivist?”

The question made no sense, and was obviously intended as such. The almost musical lilt to Michael’s voice made the words drip with cryptic smugness—it was not quite a lie, but it was still a smokescreen meant to confuse her, to obscure the truth, and Sasha found her hackles rising instantly.

She stopped, biting back the urge to snap. She ran its words through her head a second time.

“Would that mean something?” she asked. “If I was?”

Rather than answering, Michael seemed to consider her for a moment. The silence stretched on and on, and it occurred to Sasha that it seemed to be waiting for something. What, she wasn’t sure.

Finally, it broke the silence by laughing. Sasha gritted her teeth and waited for it to stop.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Michael replied. “Apparently, you aren’t.”

That told her nothing—wait. No.

She just had to… untangle it a bit. Pick through it. Blow away the smokescreen.

The archivist—the head archivist of the Magnus Institute? There was something important about it, enough for Michael to comment on it.

“You’re Michael Shelley,” she said. Then—“Or, you used to be Michael Shelley.”

“No. I was not Michael, until I was.”

Sasha chewed on her lip. “You weren’t Michael before—so, what? You’re something imitating him?” Another laugh. “Possessing him?”

Michael’s smile twisted its mouth past what was reasonable for a human face. “There is no difference between what and who, me and him and now it. I simply am, regardless of what was.”

That still made no sense, but Sasha pushed forward. “Do you remember who he was before?” she asked. “When he wasn’t—when _you_ weren’t him?”

The smile didn’t widen. That was the wrong word for what the curved line was doing. It was _more_ , somehow, without being wider.

“He—you—” This was getting ridiculous. She just needed to pick one, and stick with it. “He worked for the Magnus Institute. He was one of Gertrude’s assistants—I found his picture in the institute records.”

“Yes.” There was a new edge to its voice, like a shift from 2D to 3D in audio form. “He liked his job, and the people in it. He liked to help, liked to _trust_. It tangled him up in lies. Does that sound familiar?”

“What lies?” Sasha pressed, and was met with another distorted waveform of laughter. Michael’s fingers drummed, drawing her attention to the polished metal of the napkin container, where those same fingers looked far too long and sharp in the warped reflection. “ _Stop that—_ what lies? What _happened_ to him—to Gertrude?”

“You _are_ desperate,” Michael remarked, eyeing her with casual hunger. “You want a straight path, and you’ve come to a labyrinth to find one.”

“I have to know,” she said firmly. “Something bad happened to the last head archivist, and if I don’t find out what, then it might happen to the current one, too.” She knew the rumors—that Gertrude was missing for almost a week, that Jon came in to work one day to find her office spattered in blood. Whatever happened to Gertrude, she wasn’t about to stand by and let it catch up to Martin, too. “You said you wanted to help, and right now you’re my only lead. _Believe me,_ if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”

The smile gained another curl to it. “I see.”

“So, here’s what I know,” Sasha went on. “Michael Shelley was an archival assistant until 2007, the same year the other assistants Sarah Carpenter and Emma Harvey died. Gertrude went without assistants until 2014 when—” She hesitated, not sure if mentioning Jon by name to a monster was wise. “—when she had someone transfer in. But he’d been working with her before then, at least as early as 2013, maybe earlier. Did you—no, you wouldn’t have known him, he was hired at the institute years after you—whatever happened to you.”

Michael made a noise that, in a few moments, Sasha realized was supposed to be a wistful hum. “I wonder what he would have fed.”

Another thread. Sasha latched onto it eagerly. “Fed? You were fed to something? What?”

“Me, of course.”

“What does that even—okay, we’ll just—come back to that.” Sasha paused, then tried a new direction. “Eric Delano. You worked together. Do you know where he went, after he quit?”

“Ahhhh.” The sigh was thoughtful, almost dreamy. “Eric. He liked Eric, even though Eric didn’t like him. Eric didn’t like anyone but _her_.”

“Her? You mean Gertrude?” Did that mean—they would’ve been around the same age…

Michael laughed again, jarring her out of that train of thought. “No. A different woman with blood beneath her fingernails. He chased its sweetness into the dark, and we never saw him again. Gertrude looked,” it added, almost like an afterthought. “But not very hard.”

“Great,” Sasha sighed. Another lead, lost.

“He liked Eric,” Michael repeated. “But Eric must not have liked him very much, if he didn’t even tell him how.” It paused, thoughtful. “Unless he wanted to?”

“Tell him how—what? How to what?”

Michael blinked at her, as if surprised that she was even asking. Even on its warped face, she could see how exaggerated it was. Michael was needling her, mocking her ignorance. “How to leave, of course.”

“How to leave what? The institute? His records say he had some kind of breakdown and quit.”

Michael smiled again.

Ouroboros _,_ she thought. A snake devouring itself. That was what Michael’s smile made her think of.

“Michael,” she said slowly. “We… _can_ quit, can’t we?’

It tilted its head to the side, so sharply that it made her queasy. “Eric did. Ask him how, if you find him.”

* * *

_I regret to inform you that I must_

_After years of service, I have decided that_

_From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the opportunities that I have been given, but_

_I want out._

_I qu_

_Dear Elias let me the fuck ou_

Again. Again. Again.

Her hand seized, pain shooting from fingertips past her wrist. Another spasm loosened her grip, and the pen clattered uselessly to the desk.

Sasha swore, then looked around belatedly to make sure no one else was there. Of course not—Tim was still making phone calls about that Cooper statement, Martin was in his office hopefully recording the rest, and Jon was off doing Jon things again. She was alone. No one was around to watch her suppress a minor panic attack, no matter how much the hairs on the back of her neck wanted to convince her otherwise.

Before her, her desk was a graveyard of resignation letters.

She had tried before. Back when she first lost the Head Archivist position to Martin, again when she realized Elias’s likely motives for choosing him over her, and again when the worms first started showing up. She had never managed to finish. Always she stalled at the last minute, uncertain or indecisive or diverted by some new task or distraction, until finally her encounter with Michael made her give it up entirely. But now she was determined—no distractions, no stopping. Just sit down, type it out, write it out, send it.

Her computer was down. It had taken quite a lot to get to that point. First her mind had blanked as she stared at the e-mail draft, then her hands had locked up over the keyboard when she tried to force herself to type anyway. In the end she had picked it out, one letter at a time, until she had a rambling and half-incoherent declaration of unemployment on her screen. She had clicked send, and her screen had flickered and gone dark.

Hand-writing a two-weeks notice was producing roughly the same results.

She wanted to do something, craved it more and more desperately with each successive failure, and her own body wouldn’t let her.

Sasha put her pen down. Slid her chair back. Folded over herself. Breathed.

_We can quit, can’t we?_

Even with her eyes squeezed shut, Michael’s smile was still carved into the backs of her eyelids.

The tickle up her neck hardened, solidified into a pressing weight. There were eyes on her—she hadn’t heard anyone come in, but there was someone there, someone watching her, someone seeing her weak and vulnerable and _afraid_ —

Sasha whipped around, every nerve drawn taut, and found Jon standing in the doorway. Just Jon.

The whiplash of fear to relief made her snappish. “ _What_ , Jon.”

He bridled at her tone. “My desk is in here as well, in case you’d forgotten,” he retorted, stalking past her. As she watched, his eyes slid past her face and onto her desk, where her attempts at resigning still lay scattered like trash. “What…?”

With a sweep of her arm, Sasha slid them all into the trash. The twinge in her hand vanished like the flip of a switch, and when she shoved the wastebasket back under her desk, it stayed gone. “Nothing,” she said flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Later she would kick herself. She would ask herself why, _why_ hadn’t she said anything? He was an assistant long before she was, he knew more than he was telling them, he _had_ to know about this. He had to know something, he had to _understand_ —

But her nerves were still fraying apart from the unnamed fear, and all her animal hindbrain could focus on was that she was afraid, that something was watching her when she didn’t want to be watched, and when she turned around the only eyes she saw were his.

“…Fair enough,” Jon said simply.

His eyes stayed on his own desk after that. He wasn’t looking at her. So why did she still feel like—

“Ha! There you are!”

Tim’s arrival shattered the feeling with sledgehammer efficiency. Sasha could have hugged him.

With a weary sigh, Jon glanced up from his desk. He hadn’t even sat down—as far as Sasha could tell, he was only there to retrieve something, not work. “Can I help you, Tim?”

“Very funny,” Tim said flatly. “Seriously, I’ve been trying to track you down all week.” He crossed the room in a few steps and slapped the statement in his hands on Jon’s desk. “Where’d you find these statements?”

“In the Archives,” Jon replied. “That’s generally where statements are found, you know.”

“ _Jon._ ”

“Tim.”

“Come _on._ ” Tim’s hand came down on his shoulder firmly. “Jon, I’m serious. It’s been fun, really, getting the runaround from you, but—this weird table shows up, out of nowhere, and suddenly you’re delivering statements on it right to Martin’s desk. And I want to know _how_.”

Jon was still for a moment, looking from Tim’s face to the hand still on his shoulder. “I—what do you mean, _how?_ I’ve been working here for years, and you know that. I saw the table, I recognized it from descriptions in statements I’ve read before, so I dug them up for the rest of you. I figured you’d find them relevant. Nothing more to it.”

 _Liar,_ Sasha thought. Tbere _was_ more to it, buried beneath all the lies and silences and half-truths. Sitting there, listening to Jon pile on more layers, Sasha had never wanted more desperately to carve through to the truth.

“Could you do it again?” Tim asked.

This seemed to knock Jon off balance. “Could—what?”

“It’s like you said,” Tim said, with a tinge of triumph. “You’ve been working down here longer than any of us. This place is a mess but you know where everything is.”

“Not everything—”

“So, if I suggested a topic, couldn’t you ‘dig up’ a few more statements about it?”

Jon went still.

Sasha waited, forcing her jaw to relax instead of grind together like it wanted to. What was it going to be—another lie? More smokescreen?

“What’s this about, Tim?” Jon asked.

“It’s a yes-or-no question.”

“I—I suppose it depends on what you wanted me to find—”

“Circuses,” said Tim, and Sasha wished she could be surprised. “Clowns. Skin, maybe?”

“I—seriously?” It was back again, the disbelieving bluster in Jon’s voice. That meant Tim was getting close, and Jon was getting scared, and Jon wanted to lie again—“First of all, those are three—well, two _completely different_ —” He stopped. “I’m sorry, _skin?_ Where did skin come from?”

He was diverting. Deflecting. Taking Tim’s words, twisting them around, turning them back on him. It was so obvious if you just stopped to _think_.

“Can you do it or not?” Tim asked.

“I—” Jon stopped, composed himself, and started again. “Tim, the only reason I went and found those table statements is that they were relevant, considering Artifact Storage’s latest acquisition. I can’t go running off based on a whim—”

“It’s not a whim,” Tim said flatly. Jon went quiet.

“Still,” he muttered. Though, instead of offering more excuses, he seemed focused on Tim’s face.

“And anyway,” Tim went on, his voice deceptively light. “It _is_ relevant. Those two delivery guys? Dead ringers for the strongmen in that Other Circus. You know, the one with the organ? Which was also in Artifact Storage at one point?”

Jon was silent for a few moments more, before his shoulders went slack. “I can’t promise I’ll find anything,” he said. “But I’ll… I’ll look.”

“Great!” Tim let go of his shoulder, took the statement back, and stepped back. “Thanks, Jon,” he said. “Means a lot.”

“Right.” Jon turned away again, and Tim took the opportunity to turn his attention on Sasha.

“Hey Sash—whoa. Everything alright?”

The question hit her like a bucket of water to the face. Sasha blinked, feeling uncomfortably like she had just woken up from a very unsatisfying nap. “What?”

“You looked—you know, it was either very intense or very zoned-out.” Tim crossed the room to sit halfway on her desk. “Everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah.” The hypocrisy was not lost on her—here she was getting testy over Jon hiding things, and yet when Tim asked her the most basic question in the world, the white lie just slipped out. “I mean—I dunno. I’m sort of out of it, I guess. How’s the Cooper statement?”

“I’m on the Moore statement, actually,” Tim replied. “Speaking of, you might want to add another name to your red-string corkboard.”

In spite of herself, Sasha grinned. “You know I don’t have a red-string corkboard.”

“No? You should. I hear they’re all the rage.” Tim paused to leaf through the pages in his hand. “Anyway, there’s this guy—shows up when our friend Mr. Moore is losing his mind over his cousin who isn’t really his cousin. It’s not completely clear _what_ he does, just that it involves the table, and it gets rid of the pod-person or whatever it is.”

Sasha sat up straighter. Another do-gooder in the world of supernatural horrors? “Really. What’s his name?”

“Adelard Dekker, which—god damn, right? With a name like that, he’s bound to be the protagonist of _something_.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “I dunno, ‘Gerard Keay’ still has a pretty nice ring to it.”

“True,” Tim agreed. “Actually, Gerard Keay’s got a lot going for him, between the goth thing, the obvious tragic backstory, the billowy Matrix coat—”

“The murder charge,” Sasha added.

“Hey, that just adds to the whole ‘brooding antihero’ bit, right?”

Sasha pursed her lips. “Does he lose points since it was his mum?”

“Well, according to that statement, she got better anyway,” Tim pointed out. “My point is, he’s got a great aesthetic and big dick energy.”

There was a clatter and a curse as Jon dropped something.

“Everything alright over there?” Tim called over.

“Fine!” was the flustered answer. “Just— _really_ , Tim?”

“Are you gonna look at me and tell me that I’m _wrong_?”

It was strange, seeing him glare at Tim like that. Like it was all surface-level bluster, partly for appearances and partly because it would make Tim laugh. Sasha had seen it a few times, in the intersection of their time in Research. After Jon left, she hadn’t seen it again until after he came back from his encounter with Jane Prentiss. And now, with the knowledge of Jon’s lies gnawing at her, she wished it could take more of the edge off.

But her computer was still down, and her wastebasket was still full of failed resignation letters, and as far as she could tell, she had one last step to uncovering the secret that Michael had been so determined to dance around.

Only one thing for it, then.

* * *

“Martin.”

“ _Oh, Christ_ —Sasha, you scared the—”

“I’m going to be out for a while.”

“You… what?”

“Out of the institute. I’m not coming in tomorrow. Or, for a while, I guess.”

“Oh… okay? Can I ask why?”

“I’m going after a lead, and I can’t be here for it. I’ll probably be gone for… I don’t know, a week or two? Maybe three. It depends on what I find, or if I find anything. I just wanted to let you know, considering what happened the last time one of us was out of the office for a while.”

“...Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“Didn’t want you worrying too much. And I’ll call you or Tim while I’m out, so you know I’m still alive and not, you know, kidnapped or full of worms.”

“I can talk to Elias about it? See if I can convince him to clear it, I mean, you’ve probably got vacation days you can—”

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell Elias. If he asks where I am, tell him you haven’t heard from me and I’m not picking up my phone.”

“But—Sasha, you could get in trouble. If you’re away that long without clearing it, you could get _fired_.”

“Let’s call it part of the experiment.”

“Sasha, no offense, but what the hell does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure this out. I _promise_.”

“…Okay. Stay safe, Sasha.”

“You, too.”

* * *

The first week was… mostly normal.

From time to time, Sasha found herself glancing at her phone again and again, looking over her shoulder in the street, waiting on bated breath for something to _happen_. Someone from the institute would call in, demanding to know where she was, or she would run into a familiar face in the street, _Elias’s_ face even, and they would know what she was doing. They would know she wasn’t simply too sick to call in, they would know there was no emergency or injury or illness that kept her away, they would know what _she_ knew—

Sometimes she could shrug it off as paranoia, as the knee-jerk fear of getting in trouble, but considering how many laws she broke just gathering information for the institute, Sasha had no idea why her conscience was choosing to bother her now.

Sometimes it was relentless. Sometimes the feeling of eyes on the back of her neck, knowing, judging her, was enough to keep her wide-awake in bed, staring up at her dark ceiling as yet another day passed.

But aside from all that, the worst she could say about the experiment was how _boring_ it was.

That changed as she entered the second week.

She slept through midmorning one day. She never slept that long. Her mind never let her stay in bed later than seven in the morning. Tim was disgusted by how much of a morning person she was. But on the second Saturday after her experiment started, she slept through the morning and stayed in bed for another fifteen, before finally wrestling herself upright.

The day after that, it took her a full hour to get out of bed.

The day after that, she stayed in bed past noon.

Her head swam whenever she stood upright. She ate and drank without tasting anything, food and energy passed through her without seeming to stick. On Wednesday she dozed her way through most of the day, and woke to her phone ringing, and Tim frantic on the other end of the line. Her daily check-in call had slipped her mind.

The slimy weight of a stranger’s stare remained her only companion.

Two weeks in, she discovered her fridge empty, and stumbled out of her flat with drooping eyes to head to the nearest shop for food. She was halfway there when she stepped off a curb, only for someone to catch hold of the back of her jacket and yank her out of the street. Before she could fully register what happened, much less chew someone out for grabbing her, a delivery van sped past, scaring her nearly awake for a few seconds. If she’d been in the street a moment longer, it would have hit her.

Her eyes were already bleary again when she turned to whoever had helped her. Her sluggish tongue tripped over her thanks, and she barely registered a firm, steadying grip on her shoulder, dark purple hair, and a voice saying “Maybe look both ways next time, yeah? That one sounded big.”

She mumbled out another thank-you, went back home, and ordered in.

Nearly three weeks in, Sasha stood up from her couch one morning, and the world went dark. When she opened her eyes, a headache was splitting her skull in half. Outside, the sun was going down.

 _I have to go back,_ she thought, and a split second of clarity struck her like a thunderbolt for the first time in weeks. She blinked again, and she was already outside, her feet taking her to the usual train station that kicked off her commute.

It was evening on a Sunday, some part of her realized. She should turn back, go in tomorrow.

But she didn’t.

* * *

Sasha opened the front door to the Institute—it wasn’t locked. Why wasn’t it locked?—and the exhaustion peeled away from the rest of her like a sweaty garment. She crossed the threshold, shut the door behind her, and took in her first clear, steady view in weeks.

The lobby of the Magnus Institute lay before her, empty and creepy and quiet. She was the only one here. She had to be.

Even with the weariness gone, she drifted listlessly forward, her steps slow and uneven and aimless.

Except, they weren’t aimless at all. Muscle memory was steering her on a familiar path—she was heading for the stairs down into the basement, into the Archives.

With some effort, she turned away from the Archives themselves and into the break room instead. There, she sank into the first chair she could reach. She sat hunched over, bent double beneath the weight of the past three weeks, staring at the grain of the table and simply breathing in and out, because her mind had no room for anything else.

Deep down, a very small, very twisted part of her was content. She had set out to uncover a secret, and she’d done it. She had her answer, just like she wanted.

Only, it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted.

Footsteps scraped against the floor, and Sasha’s heart shot to her throat as she raised her head—

A mug was set down before her, full to the brim and gently steaming. Sasha took in the mug, the smell of tea, the exact shade of brown for her preferred amount of milk.

Across from her, Jon pulled out the other chair and sat down. He said nothing. When Sasha looked at him, he avoided her eyes.

 _None of you deserve this,_ he’d told her once. It had sounded arrogant, then. The bitter words of a jealous man passed over for what he thought he deserved. Only now, watching him from across the table in the darkened break room, did Sasha begin to understand what he had been trying to tell her.

“You should be able to go home after this, without any adverse effects,” Jon said softly. “I think the point’s been made.”

Questions burned at the back of her throat— _He knew. What else did he know? Wh_ _at was he doing here this late on a Saturday_ _?_ Sasha hesitated for a moment, weighing her options, before washing them down with tea.

…It wasn’t as good as Martin’s.

True to Jon’s word, when she cautiously returned to her flat, the exhaustion did not follow her home.

That was probably why she noticed the door.

To be fair, it was a bit conspicuous. It was bright yellow, for one thing. For another, when she looked around to remember which room she was in, she realized that the only thing on the other side of that wall was open air on the second floor of her building. Confused, she looked for it again.

A tape sat on the floor, resting against the wall that had been a door only moments before.

* * *

The exhaustion crept up on her that morning, forcing her to sleep through her alarm. It was nearly noon by the time Sasha made it to work, and she had barely set foot in the institute that morning before she was called up to Elias’s office.

So, all in all, a great start to her day.

And yet, she wasn’t nervous. Her record was good enough that this would probably be the first strike on it, even if the past three weeks hadn’t proven that she couldn’t leave the institute. Could she even be fired?

Christ, back in uni she would have _killed_ for that kind of job security.

“Ah, good morning, Ms. James.” The head of the institute smiled at her from across his desk. “How are you, this morning?”

“Fine,” she said automatically.

She watched his face carefully. Did he know, too? He had to. He was the head of the institute, surely he’d _know_ if his employees couldn’t leave this place for long without passing out. Could _he_ leave?

Elias’s face continued to give away nothing but that stretched, self-satisfied smile. “Excellent, glad to hear it. My only concern is…” He paused, and she wasn’t sure why. His one concern was obvious. Was this for dramatic effect? “Your unannounced absence, over the past three weeks…? I asked Martin about it, but he said he couldn’t reach you.”

“Came down with a bad case of the flu,” Sasha replied. The lie sounded hollow. “Could hardly open my eyes, much less pick up the phone. I’m really sorry about that. I’ve been pretty out of it, and I didn’t want to come back until I was sure I wouldn’t pass it around.”

There were so many holes in that story, it was genuinely laughable. And yet Elias nodded understandingly.

“Well, I commend your concern for your coworkers.” He smiled at her, thin and superficial. He _knew._ He knew, and he was daring her to ask, daring her to call him on it. “Of course we’re glad to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Sasha said dryly.

“Glad to hear it. Don’t let me keep you, then, though—” Sasha paused in the middle of turning to leave. “In the future, do try to call about your absences. We have vacation and sick days for a reason.”

“Right,” Sasha muttered, and left without another word.

She didn’t go to her desk, or to Martin’s desk. Not yet. She would, later. She had to. But first, there was a tape in her pocket, and she knew that Jon kept an extra recorder in Document Storage. Hopefully he wouldn’t put up a fuss over her borrowing it.

There were few places around the Iinstitute that offered real privacy. Most departments had open floor plans, and for all that the institute’s digital security was lacking, there was no shortage of security cameras. But there was a blind spot here, a courtyard there, where Sasha had in the past enjoyed at least a semblance of solitude.

She chose one of the private courtyards, technically open to employees but too small and drab to offer a nice space even for a smoke break. Once there, she tucked herself into a corner as far out of the way of the nearest security camera as possible, and put the tape in.

The recording began with a few seconds of silence, broken by a deep breath, the rustle of paper, and finally the gravely voice of an old woman. She’d heard it once before, in another recording filched from Jon’s desk.

“ _Hm…_ _odd,_ ” Gertrude Robinson murmured. “ _Well, if you insist._ _Case 0040912,_ _Loretta Jamison. Incident occurred on_ _the_ _campus_ _of the University of Aberdeen. Statement given 12_ _th_ _of September 2004. Committed to tape 4_ _th_ _of August 2012. Gertrude Robinson recording…_ ”

What followed was a statement. Truth be told, it wasn’t too different from listening to Martin’s recordings—or the one recording she’d heard from Jon, for that matter. Gertrude’s voice was steady and measured at the start, only to grow heavier and more ominous as the grim account went on.

Ms. Jamison was young—barely eighteen when she gave her statement—and the way her fright leaked into Gertrude’s voice made the blood run cold in Sasha’s veins. Her mother died when she was twelve. Her father remarried, and under her new stepmother’s influence, gradually stopped talking to her, stopped touching her, stopped acting like he had a daughter at all. Eventually they seemed content to pretend she didn’t exist, leaving her to manage her own life by herself at the tender age of fourteen.

She chose classes by herself, went to school by herself, took her driver’s test and saved money and picked out universities all by herself.

And then one day, arriving to one for a campus tour, she found the entire campus empty and sprawling and labyrinthine. She wandered it for what felt like hours or days, plagued by the knowledge that no one would wonder where she was.

Sasha listened intently, even as her stomach swam with secondhand horror. It reminded her sharply of that one woman who came in to give a statement so many months ago—a lonely woman grieving a loved one, finding herself lost in an empty expanse. She wondered if that was a coincidence.

What a question.

But the other pressing question was _why_? Why had this tape been left to her? (Not to mention _who_ had left it, though she had her suspicions.) What was the point? To remind her of Naomi Herne? To reveal… _something_ about Gertrude?

Or maybe there was no point at all. Maybe Michael or whoever it was just thought it’d be funny to see her run herself in circles with questions—

“… _Statement ends._ ”

Sasha’s thoughts stilled. For a while, the recording was silent.

“ _…_ _Still? Fine._ _Ms. Jamison moved in with a maternal cousin, not long after giving her statement. Apparently, rather than go straight to university, she took a gap year to spend time with her mother’s family. According to Jonathan’s follow-up research, she went on to attend the University of Edinburgh the following year. By all accounts, she seems to be doing well._ ”

Another long pause.

“ _I do wonder at the wisdom of_ _reading_ _this statement, considering the circumstances,_ ” Gertrude went on. Sasha frowned. Circumstances? “ _I will admit to being motivated by at least some level of spite—appropriating the fear of one and feeding it to another. Not the most effective method of retaliation, but it’s been a while since I last saw Peter Lukas, so unfortunately I cannot bring_ _him_ _my_ _grievances directly._ ”

Sasha gaped at the tape recorder. There was… a lot to unpack in that alone. Peter Lukas? Appropriating fear? _What?_

“ _It’s increasingly difficult to find good help these days,_ ” Gertrude went on, with a tinge of irritation. “ _And Elias is being as unhelpful as always._ ”

Sasha’s mind raced. Peter Lukas—Jon said something before about coming in conflict with Lukas, hadn’t he? How had he put it—wrong place, wrong time, singled out for “a simple joke”… was this related?

“ _As much as I hate to_ _waste time and energy_ _indulging Peter’s pett_ _iness, I must consider the long-term benefit of resolving this._ ” Gertrude paused. “ _Good God, this is going to give Elias ideas, and I_ hate _giving Elias—_ ”

The sound of a door banging open cut her off. Sasha jumped.

“Good God—” Gertrude paused. “… _Jonathan._ ”

“ _Hello, Gertrude._ ” It was kind of incredible, how varied Jon’s voice was in these recordings. It seemed like every time Sasha heard him on a tape, her first thought was that she’d never heard him sound like that before.

Even over the slight hiss and crackle of the recording, Sasha could hear the rasp in Jon’s voice, as if he’d been sick or mute for weeks. His casual tone was paper-thin and pasted on, barely covering up the tremble.

Gertrude sighed. “ _Sit down before you fall over. Have you been home since—_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Jon cut her off. “ _S-sorry. No. I-I_ _just_ _got out, and I came straight here._ ”

“ _Ah._ ”

“ _There’s not exactly—I mean, I don’t live with anyone, and there’s—I knew you’d be here. I-I don’t…_ ” A slow, shuddering breath. “ _It seems safer, to stay where there are other people._ ”

“ _All things considered, you’re probably right._ ”

Footsteps and faint creaking followed—Jon sitting down, probably—before he finally spoke so softly that the recording barely picked it up.

“ _How long was I gone?_ ”

“ _Nearly a month. It’s the 4_ _th_ _of August._ ”

“ _Christ,_ ” Jon breathed. “ _I’m sorry, Gertrude, the—the report_ _you showed me_ _, did you…?_ ”

“ _I’ve been investigating it in your absence, of course,_ ” Gertrude replied, sounding like she was moving about the room. “ _And d_ _on’t bother apologizing—this is hardly_ your _fault. Peter Lukas is childish,_ _and Elias is as unhelpful as ever._ ”

“ _Right, right._ ” Jon paused. “ _Wait, Elias?_ ”

“ _Yes, Elias. He tends to drag his feet at calling the Lukases to heel, even when his precious institute would run more smoothly otherwise._ ”

“ _Oh,_ ” Jon said softly. Then, “ _You… asked Elias? To—to get me back?_ ”

Sasha could almost hear the carefree shrug in Gertrude’s voice. “ _It only made sense. Do you honestly think I’d tolerate you if you were useless?_ ”

“ _I-I suppose not,_ ” Jon replied, still quietly bewildered.

“ _In any case, you should probably do something about that isolation. Now that the Lonely has had a taste of you, it’s likely to come creeping back if you aren’t careful. If you have any relations or friends you can stay with for the time being, I would suggest doing so._ ”

“ _Not really,_ ” Jon said uncomfortably. “ _Beyond some casual acquaintances in Research… no one that I’m particularly close to, if that’s what you’re asking._ ”

“ _I see. Then I have to ask, how did you—?_ ” She paused. “ _Actually. If you want to make a statement..._ ”

“ _No,_ ” Jon said firmly. “ _I… no. I’d rather not._ ”

“ _Hm_.” It was almost a chuckle. “ _I can’t fault you that._ ”

“ _Thank you._ ”

“ _I do mean it, Jonathan,_ ” Gertrude went on, shifting back to seriousness. “ _The Lonely is an insidious fear._ _You’ve escaped it once, and_ _Peter may leave you alone, or he may try again._ ”

“ _I know._ ”

“ _Get a cat, at least._ _Unless the orange one on your lock screen is yours?_ ”

“ _I—no, the Admiral isn’t mine—_ ”

“ _Then I suggest you either get one or start socializing._ ”

“ _Right. Is… that what you do?_ ”

Gertrude’s laughter was bone dry and grim. “ _To keep Peter Lukas away? Jonathan, I haven’t needed to for_ years.”

The recording ended.

Sasha sat still for a moment more, mouth hanging open in shock.

Then she swore, got to her feet, and raced back for the Archives.

* * *

Martin was out of pens.

It was partly his own fault and partly not. Whenever he left his office, he tended to bring whatever he was holding with him, which led him to leave things in places. It was useful when he had assistants who might also be out of pens and need to borrow one from him, but less useful when he wanted to have pens on hand. He also strongly suspected Jon of wandering into his office and “borrowing” pens—maybe he and Gertrude had an agreement, and he was still in the habit? Seeing as it was the least of Jon’s vices, it just wasn’t worth making a fuss.

So here he was, trying to unobtrusively check Sasha’s desk for one.

“Hey, Sasha—oh. You’re not Sasha.” Tim halted halfway through the door.

“No, I’m just looking for a pen,” Martin replied. “Aren’t you still at lunch?”

“Yeah, I’m just heading out to grab some snacks before my hour’s up, thought I’d see if I could catch her,” Tim replied. “You want anything?”

“Um, no. I’m good. Thanks, though. I’ll let Sasha know if I see her, have her text you.”

“Sounds good! Back in a bit. If she decides to let you in on whatever she’s been doing, don’t let her start without me!”

Martin found a pen after Tim left, and took it back to his office. As he sat down at his desk, his eyes fell upon the statement lying on the far corner, and he mentally kicked himself again. That was Rose Cooper’s statement, still unrecorded. The other statements about the table were recorded and put away, but for some reason he just kept dawdling on recording this one, even after three weeks. Every time he thought about doing it, either something would distract him, or he was already deep in another task.

Maybe he could do it now? He had some time. Though, he really would need to talk to Sasha at some point, now that she was back. He hadn’t seen her all morning.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention to a shelf against the wall. Martin frowned, confused, until a small, dark shape crept up to the edge. Just a spider. A big one, but still a spider.

So maybe it was a good thing his pen cup was empty at the moment. Martin grabbed it, along with an empty manila folder, and went to the shelf. “Hello,” he said quietly, carefully easing the cup over the spider. “Sorry about this, but I think you’d be better off outside…”

The door to his office slammed open. Martin yelped in shock, flailed, and watched in horror as the shelf—and the wall behind it—gave.

“Martin!” Sasha called out. “Where’s Tim? Also, where’s Jon?”

“I—what—” Martin spluttered, staring wildly between Sasha, the now-collapsed shelf, and the small hole torn into the wall. “Sasha, what the hell?”

“Martin, I’m serious. I’ve found—I’ve found out a lot.” Sasha stopped, catching her breath. “Oh—oh God, sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you. Jesus, what happened to the wall?”

“I don’t know!” Martin said helplessly. “It just—I was trying to catch a spider, and then you came in and I sort of smacked the shelf by accident—it wasn’t even that hard!”

“Well, that’s cheap shelves for you.” Sasha frowned, moving closer. “Though—this should be an exterior wall, shouldn’t it?” She nudged the edges of the hole. “This looks like plasterboard to me.”

Martin struggled to remember the orientation of his office to the rest of the building. “Um, maybe? I think so… maybe there’s space between the plasterboard and the exterior wall? For some reason?”

“Hmm.” Sasha made as if to turn away, then paused. “Do you… hear that?”

“Hear what?” Martin asked.

“The—” Sasha went to the hole again and peered inside. “Oh. Oh, God.”

“What—”

Sasha sprang back, grabbed Martin’s arm, and dragged him away from the broken wall. Martin was about to ask her what was wrong when he heard it—crawling, squirming, a wet hiss from the darkness beyond the hole.

And then the first worms emerged.


	10. Secrets Unearthed

At first, Martin was transfixed.

It just didn’t seem real, somehow. It was one thing to see the odd worm while trudging up the institute steps, or to hear about swarms of them secondhand from a statement. It was another to stand in his office, his workplace and home base for nearly a year, and watch as the wriggling flow became a tide, as the plasterboard peeled apart like wet paper and let the lot of them through. It felt like a lucid dream, and for several crucial seconds it left him standing there like a slackjawed idiot, watching as the worms came at him.

He should—he needed to do something. They could kill the worms. CO2—they had fire extinguishers. _He_ had fire extinguishers, in his office, in the assistants’ office, in the hallways—and this was why. Where did he put the ones in his office, again?

He needed to _move_.

But he couldn’t. His mind was racing, too many plans and possibilities crowding in his head. He was frozen again, paralyzed by fear and indecision, feet rooted to the spot. Again. He had to move, but all he could think to do was watch, _again—_

“Martin!” Sasha bellowed in his ear, jarring him into action just by startling him. He stumbled back, jittery from the shock, and once he started, all he had to do was not stop.

One of the fire extinguishers was already overrun with worms, but there was another that they hadn’t reached yet. “Sasha,” he began, staring at it—Sasha was closer, Sasha could grab it faster than he could.

He didn’t need to say anything else. Sasha lunged for it, swinging it up and away from the worms, and something slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. A tape. She dove for it, heedless of the worms that were almost upon her. Martin reached out hopelessly to grab her and pull her away, _just leave it, Sasha, we have to go_ —

And then Jon was just _there_.

The temperature in the air plummeted with a blast of CO2 gas. The white cloud dissipated quickly, leaving a pile of dead worms in its wake—which the wave of living worms quickly buried. Jon stood in their path, steadily backing up as he hit them with another shot of gas. “Get to the stairs.”

“When did you—”

Jon rounded on him, icy calm evaporating. “I said get to the goddamn stairs! Get out of the archives! _Now!_ ”

“Martin, come _on_ ,” Sasha urged, and Martin was already turning to run. Another fire extinguisher sat waiting nearer to the door—Jon must have dropped it on his way in—and he grabbed it as soon as it was within reach.

He distinctly remembered Sasha closing his office door behind her when she first entered. Now it stood wide open, the wall behind it dented through. More worms were already pouring out. Martin shoved the hose at the flow and squeezed the lever to clear the way.

The three of them spilled out into the hallway—Sasha at the front, Martin nearly keeping pace with her, and Jon at their backs, covering their retreat. The gas cut a path through them, but never for long. Martin’s office was already overrun, and from the sheer volume of wet squirming that filled the basement hallway, Martin could guess they had breached other rooms, as well.

This meant, of course, that by the time they were turning toward the basement stairs, the ground was already thickly carpeted in writhing silver bodies.

They only had three fire extinguishers between them. This, as it turned out, was not enough.

Sasha leapt back with a strangled whimper, one arm outstretched and trembling as three worms ate through her sleeve. Martin kept the rest off of her while she recovered, but the rising tide of worms forced his attention away.

“They’re not gonna let us through!” Even in his own ears, his voice sounded high and desperate. Terrified. Before him, the hallway was filling with worms, cutting off their only exit from the basement. In a few seconds they’d be knee-deep.

“Back this way.” Jon thrust his way forward. “It’s clearer in the other direction—get to document storage.”

Sasha was already turning pale. “We’ll be trapped!”

“Take your pick!” Jon retorted. “Trapped or eaten! What’ll it be?”

Without another word, they made a break for the storage room.

The air was thick with gas as they cleared the doorway. Martin’s head swam—all this CO2 couldn’t be good for him. But they had to be sure, they had to be _safe_.

And then Sasha was through the door, and Martin was through the door, and Jon was throwing himself in after them and slamming it behind them. A few quick stomps took care of the ones that followed them inside.

In the quiet that followed, all Martin could hear was Sasha’s quick, frantic breathing as she clawed at her arm. She managed to pull one worm out with her fingertips and throw it on the ground to crush, but the rest were already too deep inside.

“I need—” Her voice cracked. “Um. Tweezers? Maybe a knife?”

“There’s a—hold on.” Jon moved past them, visibly limping. Reaching up, he rummaged through the contents of a cluttered shelf, before pulling down a plain white box. Opening it revealed a packed first aid kit, from which he drew a small pair of forceps. “Would you like me to do it, or would you rather—” Sasha snatched it from him and slid down to sit on the floor and take care of her own treatment. “—Right.”

“What about you?” Martin asked. “Did you—oh God.”

There were visible holes in Jon’s right trouser leg, scattered below the knee and darkening with spreading bloodstains. Wordlessly, Jon leaned his back against the wall and lowered himself gingerly to the floor, setting the first aid kit down beside him. His face was tight as he drew out a pocketknife, unfolded it, and cut through the fabric. Bile rose in Martin’s throat. He counted seven worms, though there might have been more that he couldn’t see.

With businesslike calm, Jon uncapped a scalpel blade from the first aid kit.

“Uh—Jon?” Abruptly Martin remembered which jacket he was wearing. “Wait.”

“I’d really rather get this over with.”

“No, it’s just—” Martin crouched down by him and drew out the object in his pocket. “Would this work better?”

Jon blinked, scalpel still poised over one of the worms as he stared at the corkscrew in Martin’s hand.

“It’s just that they burrow in a straight line?” Martin blurted out. “And they seem pretty slow. So I was just thinking that lateral cuts wouldn’t be as efficient as… you know.” He waved the corkscrew vaguely. “Look, if you don’t want it, I’ll just—”

“No, it’s… fine.” Jon gave him an odd look, but put the scalpel down and took the corkscrew instead. “You’ve put some thought into this.” It was not a question, and yet it sort of was.

“I’ve read two statements about these things, and both you and Sasha were attacked,” Martin said flatly. “It’s been on my mind.” He kept his eyes averted as Jon wielded the corkscrew. Jon’s hands were _steady_ , was the thing. Everything about him was steady and methodical. In its own way, it was as unsettling as the worms themselves.

“Have you checked yourself?” Jon asked, without looking up.

Almost immediately, Martin began to itch. “Er, I didn’t feel anything?”

“You won’t.”

“Oh,” Martin said weakly, and began patting himself down to check for worms.

From the wall at the back of the room, Sasha sighed. “Come here, Martin, I’ll check your back if you check mine.”

“Thanks.”

The next thing to break the silence was the sound of a phone going off. Martin jumped, as did Sasha, and judging by Jon’s muffled cursing, so did he.

Never in a million years would Martin have guessed that Jon would set his ringtone to the Ghostbusters theme. In spite of everything else about their situation, Sasha looked like she might actually laugh.

“Could—could one of you get that?” Jon asked, almost sheepishly.

From his place on the floor by Sasha, it took a moment of looking around for Martin to spot Jon’s phone, sitting on the small table that Jon often worked at when he was hiding in here. Scooting over, he reached up to grab it, and would have handed it over if Jon hadn’t clearly had his hands full.

“Just put it on speaker,” Jon said wearily. “And don’t—please don’t say anything?”

“Alright.” The screen was lit up with the caller’s name: For Emergencies Only. Martin answered it and hit the speaker button, then nodded to Jon.

“Hello?” Jon called over, still focused on his current task.

“ _Hey, Jon!_ ” A woman’s bright voice replied. “ _Sorry to bug you. It’s about dinner tonight—we’re thinking of switching up the place. Melanie’s got a bit of a tender tummy today—_ ” Somewhere in the background, another woman shouted something indistinct. “ _—so we’re thinking spicy might not be the way to go._ _If you wanted to throw out some suggestions…?_ ”

Jon paused, holding a bloody corkscrew with a dying worm wriggling on the end. “Um. About that.”

“ _Jon, I swear, if the next thing out of your mouth isn’t a restaurant recommendation and a ‘see you then’—_ ”

“Something’s come up,” Jon said uncomfortably. “It’s an emergency, not a choice. I promise, I’ll try to make it tonight if I’m physically able.”

Silence. Then—“ _Are you in danger?_ ”

“Not… not in immediate danger,” Jon replied. “But if you could tell—if you could pass along that I’m tied up at the institute—that’s figuratively tied up—and call the ECDC and convince them to come to the institute, that would… it’s worms again.”

There was no answer. Martin ground his teeth in impatience, then looked down at the screen. His heart sank. “The call dropped,” he said. “Signal must be bad.”

“Of course,” Jon gritted out, and ripped the last worm out of his leg.

“Maybe she still heard you?” Martin said hopefully. “Call could’ve dropped after you finished saying all that.”

“Not what I’m worried about at the moment.” Jon tossed the corkscrew aside and reached for the first aid kid again.

“What do you mean by that?”

Jon’s eyes flickered briefly to the door. “Where’s Tim?”

“He’s still at… lunch…” Martin’s voice trailed off. “ _Shit_ , he went out to get snacks—”

The door had a small glass window, now partially blocked with worms. Beyond, Martin could see a figure moving from one room to another. Dark, filthy hair hung from her head in chunks and tangles. Worms wriggled in and out of holes in her pale, gray-tinged skin.

Without warning, she turned her head and met his eyes, and her ragged mouth stretched into a smile.

Martin turned away before he could throw up. “Prentiss is out there,” he said tightly. Jon’s mouth twisted, though whether it was from revulsion or gauze soaked in antiseptic, Martin wasn’t sure. “Tim isn’t, though. Hopefully that means he’s not back yet. Hopefully, when he does get back, he’ll hear the squirming and won’t just… wander straight into them. Hopefully.”

Shakily, he lowered himself to the ground by the door. He could see both assistants from this angle. Jon was almost finished tending to his leg. Sasha’s arm was free of worms, the wounds dressed. Her eyes were fixed on Jon, steady and intent.

“In the meantime,” Martin went on, forcing a light tone. “Maybe we can all put our heads together and figure out a perfectly logical, scientific explanation for all this.”

Jon put down the roll of medical tape and sighed.

“Maybe a mass hallucination.”

“Martin—”

“Or swamp gas.”

“Yes, all _right_ ,” Jon snapped.

“As long as we’re on the same page,” Martin said testily. “Not that I like being locked in here by worms, but if you were going to keep insisting that the supernatural isn’t real—”

“I’m not an idiot, Martin,” Jon shot back, frustration boiling to the surface. “Of course it’s real. Of course this place is _brimming_ with it.”

Far from satisfying him, Jon’s words only made Martin’s temper flare. “Then _why—_ ”

“Because I didn’t know how else to protect you from it!”

The storage room didn’t have much of an echo, but the shock of hearing Jon properly shout was enough to stun Martin into silence, even before the words registered.

Jon’s knuckles were white, nails visibly digging into his palms. “None of you should even be here! None of this was supposed to happen! She was supposed to come back, but she didn’t, and I—I was just trying to hold things together while she was gone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not this long. She was supposed to come _back_.” His voice cracked, and he lifted his hands to dig his fingers into his hair instead. “I knew one day she might—it would have been _fine_ if it were just me, I can protect myself, but then all of you…”

His voice trailed off.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said quietly. “I thought if I waited, or if I went out and found her, then she’d know, but… but she’s not here. And _I don’t know what to do_.”

As suddenly as the tirade began, it was over. For a while, the only sound was the whir of the dehumidifier and, faintly, the slick squirming of worms just outside the sealed door.

Martin cast about the room and found no landline phone or fire alarm. No way at all to communicate with the outside world, except for Jon’s now-useless mobile.

The question came to him belatedly, but he latched on to it anyway, desperate to fill the deafening silence. “Sasha? What—you came to tell me something, didn’t you? What was it?”

“Ah.” Sasha heaved herself to her feet, favoring her injured arm. “Where’s the—oh.” She found the spare tape recorder sitting on the desk. Grabbing it, she opened it, removed the tape, and replaced it with her own.

“So I found this earlier,” she said, and pressed play.

“ _I just got out, and I came straight here,_ ” said Jon’s voice, weary and shaking.

“ _Ah._ ”

“ _There’s not exactly—I mean, I don’t live with anyone, and there’s—I knew you’d be here. I-I don’t… It seems safer, to stay where there are other people._ ”

“ _All things considered, you’re probably right._ ”

Martin had only heard Gertrude’s voice a few times, but the old woman on the recording could not be anyone else. Judging by Jon’s tense stillness, he recognized her too.

“ _How long was I gone?_ ” Jon-on-the-recording asked.

“ _Nearly a month. It’s the 4_ _th_ _of August._ ”

“ _Christ._ ”

“That’s enough,” Jon said quietly. Sasha stopped the tape.

“Bit redundant at this point,” she said, her voice carefully casual. “But yeah. Jane Prentiss isn’t the first monster you’ve run into, I take it.”

Jon’s answering laugh was brief, hoarse, and devoid of any semblance of humor. “No,” he said quietly. “No, she isn’t.” Slowly, he uncurled and sat up again. “Sasha, could you… the tape that was in it before. It’s blank. Could you put it back in?”

Sasha frowned. “Why?”

“Because Tim isn’t here right now,” Jon replied wearily. “And—whatever conversation we’re about to have, I don’t want to have it twice.”

Sasha nodded once, and did as he asked. The other tape, with the recording of Jon and Gertrude on it, went back into her pocket.

“I still don’t understand,” said Martin, once the recorder was running. “If you knew about all of this—if you knew how _dangerous_ it was—why didn’t you say anything? Why keep us in the dark? Aren’t we in more danger if we don’t know what we’re getting into?”

Jon hesitated, lips pressed together in a tight, unhappy expression. “You have to understand,” he answered. “It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. I thought, if I could keep you from the worst of it, just until she got back, then maybe you could all come away from this no worse for wear.”

“Gertrude, right?” said Martin. “I thought—isn’t she supposed to be dead?”

Jon winced.

“Jon,” Sasha sat forward. “Is she _not_ dead? Do you know what happened to her?”

Again, Jon didn’t reply right away. He was looking off at nothing in particular, as if the opposite wall held all the answers.

“I know where she went,” he said at last, so quietly that Martin could still hear the slide of worms against the door. “I don’t know why she didn’t come back.”

Martin exchanged a glance with Sasha, and saw his own unease reflected back on her face.

“It’s not—it wasn’t the first time she vanished for a few weeks without saying anything,” Jon went on. “So when Elias said he was replacing her with you, Martin, I thought I could just… keep you from the worst of it, keep you focused on false statements until she came back and put things back in order.” He sighed again, shutting his eyes. “But then Elias stepped in again, gave you assistants, started passing you the real ones. I still hoped I could handle it, do damage control, keep the truth from drawing you in, just until she came back.” He looked at them again, as if pleading them to understand. “It was just supposed to be until she came back. But then time went on, weeks and months with no sign of her, and by then I’d already set myself against you. So, even when I realized my plan was no longer sustainable, I just… didn’t know how to shift tactics.”

He laughed again, just as humorless as before. “And then I got trapped in my flat, and you spent all that time finding more of the truth. Then the worms, and that damned table—” He stopped again. “Everything’s just… spun out of control since then. And now we’re here.”

Martin’s mind was racing, flitting through every new piece of information like the pages of a book caught in a windstorm. Judging by the look on her face, Sasha seemed to be in the same spot.

Where to even begin?

“I have a question,” Sasha broke the silence first. “Well, I have a lot, but. Say things had gone according to plan.” She leveled a hard stare at him. “Say Gertrude came back, like you hoped. Where were you planning on going from there?”

Weird question to start on, Martin thought. “I mean, that part should be obvious,” he said. “If Gertrude’s still alive and wants her job back, she can have it. I’m _out_.”

For some reason, this only made Sasha’s stare sharpen into a proper glare. Jon wouldn’t meet her eyes, or Martin’s for that matter.

“Jon,” she said. “What did you think was going to happen.”

“I—” Jon stopped. Took a deep breath. Tried again. “I think she knows a way to quit.”

Sasha went strangely still.

“S-sorry, what?” Martin looked from one face to the other. “Am I missing something?”

“Are you going to tell him, or should I?” Sasha asked calmly.

“I think you’re more credible than I am at this point.”

“Fair enough.” Sasha turned to Martin. “We can’t quit. I tried.”

Martin blanched. “What?”

“I tried to write up a resignation letter, and my hands wouldn’t let me,” Sasha informed him. “You know how I just got back from playing hooky? After I told you not to cover for me with Elias? I got sick after I spent enough time away from the institute. Nothing specific, I was just… weak. I was feverish, I was exhausted all the time, and it didn’t stop until I came back.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And Elias didn’t fire me.”

“Great,” Martin said faintly. “Great, great. Okay. So we’re just… trapped here.”

“Yep,” Sasha said grimly, before turning back to Jon. “But you say Gertrude knew a way out. Are you sure?”

“I—that is, Gertrude didn’t...” Jon’s voice trailed off as he hunted for a way to reply. “She didn’t say that she did. She wouldn’t have. Gertrude played her cards close to the vest, and if she did know how to quit the Archives, she would have guarded that knowledge with her life.”

Sasha frowned. “What—she wouldn’t have told you? She’d just let you stay trapped here?”

Jon’s head jerked upward, and for the first time since they’d fled here, he glared back. “She didn’t trap me here,” he said sharply. “If anything, she did everything she could to prevent me from signing a contract, and it took a long time and extreme circumstances to change her mind.” His eyes flickered toward Martin for a moment before settling back on Sasha. “I made a choice. I don’t know if it was the right one. I don’t know if there _was_ a right one, but I knew the risks, and I walked into this with my eyes open.”

Mulishly, Sasha held his gaze for a few moments, before she finally nodded. “Fine,” she conceded. “If you say so.”

“I _do_ say so,” Jon said testily.

“The point is, you thought that Gertrude would tell _us_ ,” Sasha went on. “Three people she either never met or barely talked to. When she didn’t even tell you.”

“Gertrude didn’t like taking on assistants,” Jon informed her. “As I said, it took a lot of convincing for her to accept _me_. Years, in fact.” There was a note of pride in his voice. “She didn’t trust easily. So my hope was that the prospect of two, or possibly three new assistants, all forced on her by Elias, would convince her to tell you, at least. Or, if possible, free you herself without you realizing anything was wrong in the first place. And then we could carry on as before, and you all could leave the Archives unharmed.”

At this point, Jon looked subdued. Restless, but in a melancholy way, like he longed to act but had no idea where to begin. He _missed_ her, Martin realized with a jolt. He vaguely remembered hearing threads of office gossip, about how loyal Jon was to the old archivist, and a bit of speculation as to why that might be—anything from owing her a debt to the two of them being blood relatives. But it hadn’t truly occurred to him how much her absence might hurt him.

With that thought, Martin finally settled on a question.

“So, here’s something,” he said cautiously. “It’s been a year since she disappeared, just about. Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you still think she’s alive?”

“She _has_ to be,” Jon said with quiet vehemence. “It just—it makes no sense for her to be dead.”

“You know where she went, right?” Martin pressed. “Where was she?”

“She was…” Jon hesitated.

Sasha made an impatient noise. “Jon, I swear, if you’re about to cook up another white lie—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Jon assured them both. “It’s just—it’s hard to explain, on its own.”

“ _Try_ ,” Martin and Sasha said in unison.

Jon winced. “She was investigating a cult. Well, no, not investigating. Er. ‘Attacking’ might be a more accurate term, I think. Suffice to say, they were planning something catastrophic, and she left the institute that day to stop them.” His face tensed. “I thought I was going to go with her, but she had me stay behind.”

“A cult,” Martin echoes. “Okay. Sure, why not. Are you sure they didn’t just… you know…”

“I’m _positive_ they didn’t kill her,” Jon said flatly. “Believe me, if they had, it wouldn’t be a mystery.”

“Cults can hide some pretty shady stuff,” Sasha pointed out.

Jon choked out a contemptuous laugh. “Not this one. Not if it was her.” A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Something you ought to know about Gertrude—she made enemies everywhere she went. They either hated her, feared her, or both.” There was fierce pride in his eyes. “If they had actually managed to kill her, they’d never have shut up about it. They’d make sure _everyone_ knew.”

“Ah,” Martin said, for lack of a better way to reply.

“Besides that,” Jon went on. “She was planning on disrupting their ritual. If they’d killed her, the consequences of her failure would have been… fairly noticeable.”

“Noticeable how?” Martin asked, wracking his brain for the kind of things cults got up to. “Like, like mass murder? Ritual murder?”

“Publicized smear campaigns?” Sasha asked dryly.

Jon actually rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, did we not just finish establishing that we all know the supernatural is real?” he snapped. “You don’t understand. If Gertrude failed, we _all_ would have noticed. Because if the People’s Church of the Divine Host had successfully completed their ritual, _the sun would not have come up_.”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You mean… literally?” Sasha asked cautiously. “Or… more of a Hogfather situation?”

Jon stared at her blankly. “What?”

“Oh, you know, ‘ _a_ _mere ball of flaming gas would have_ _illuminated the world,_ ’ et cetera.”

“Once again,” Jon said impatiently. “The supernatural is real. I am not being metaphorical.”

“Right, just checking.”

“So now there’s a cult that wants to end the world,” Martin said faintly.

“Several, actually.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Martin heaved a sigh. God, he was tired. “I just can’t wrap my head around _why_ you thought we’d be safer in the dark.”

It was mostly rhetorical. The answer didn’t really matter at this point, so Martin just let the silence hang.

And then Jon took a deep breath. “Well… mostly because of the vast and powerful entity of fearful knowledge and voyeuristic terror that we all currently serve.”  
“Fuck _me_ ,” Sasha said, with feeling.

“Look, there’s just—there’s a certain… _semblance_ of structure, to all of this,” said Jon. “I don’t know if—maybe you’ve noticed? Connections between statements?”

“Like… Leitners?” Martin asked. “That Circus Tim’s obsessed with?”

“Gerard Keay,” Sasha said carefully.

“N-no,” Jon shook his head. “I mean thematic connections. Between the encounters themselves.”

Martin frowned. “So, like… blood? Bones?” He remembered Grifter’s Bone, and the calliope organ, and the statement about Wilfred Owen. “Music’s come up a few times.”

“People who aren’t people,” said Sasha.

“That’s a bit closer,” Jon said. “There are powers at play here. Dread Powers, some call them. And these encounters, these monsters, all originate from them.”

“You sound like you’re talking about gods,” Martin said uneasily.

“You could call them gods if you like,” Jon replied. He shifted position, sitting forward in spite of his injured leg. “There are certainly people who worship them, hence the cults. But they’re aren’t what you’d imagine when thinking of gods and pantheons. They’re just—they’re forces. As far as I know, they don’t really have consciousness, or even intent, really. Beyond spreading fear.” His hands fidgeted, fingertips picking at the edge of the gauze he’d secured over his wounds. “But if you want to carry the god comparison further, than I suppose you could say that the institute is… something of a temple to one of them.”

“Okay, so we serve a fear god,” Sasha sighed. “Fine. What kind of fear god?”

“It’s got a few names,” said Jon. “The Eye. The Beholding. The Ceaseless Watcher. It Knows You. It represents the fear of being watched. Being seen. Having all your secrets torn from you and laid bare for all the world to see. That’s what the statements are for—they’re how it feeds. How _we_ feed it, now.”

Martin could only slump back against the wall. “I really could have used this information a while ago.”

“No, this is _why_ I was trying to keep you in the dark,” Jon said sharply. “The more you learn about these things, the more you actively pursue that knowledge, the more it takes notice of you. And while it’s very difficult to be truly safe in a world controlled by these powers, the safest you can be is when they _don’t notice you_.” He turned to Sasha, frowning. “I’m pretty sure the Eye’s already got a hold on you. You might want to be careful how much you feed it. They’re like stray cats. Feed them once, and they’ll keep coming back. They draw you in, encourage you to feed them more and more, and if you don’t, they’ll feed on you instead. Maybe you’ve already noticed the pull.” Sasha looked away, troubled, and Jon turned to Martin. “And then there’s you.”

Martin fought the urge to fidget uncomfortably under Jon’s attention. “Me?”

“Elias made you the Archivist.”

Sasha sat up straight. “You say it the same way Michael did,” she said. “There’s something important about that, isn’t there? About being the Head Archivist.”

Jon nodded. “I don’t know the specifics,” he said. “I think the position itself is old—older than the institute, even. But the important thing is that it comes with certain abilities, and a lot of danger.” His brow furrowed. “Gertrude didn’t talk about it a lot. Taking statements is a large part of it, and to that end, the Eye grants the Archivist the ability to draw the truth from people, even against their will.”

Martin’s stomach turned. “Wait, so I could… I could _make_ people tell me things?”

“By asking, yes.”

“And Gertrude could do this?”

“She didn’t like to,” Jon replied. “But she could. I saw it myself.”

“I don’t…” Martin thought back, wracking his brain to examine his recent conversations. Had he done that to anyone? Asked a question and accidentally forced an answer? “I don’t know if I’ve ever… I mean, I don’t _think_ …”

“Good,” Jon said bluntly. “I’ve been trying to slow your development since you started. Why do you think I was wrenching statements out of your hands and recording them before you got the chance?”

“I thought it was because you were a prick,” Martin’s mouth said before his brain caught up.

That actually shut Jon up for a few seconds. In any other circumstances, it might have been funny.

“Is that…?” Sasha paused. “Sorry, Jon, it’s just… is that really the best thing to do? Because it seems to me like we need all the advantages we can get, so if Martin being the Archivist comes with perks—”

“They’re not—” Jon looked appalled. “No. Absolutely not. And if you’d like to know why, then I invite you to have a look out that window. Because the Archivist is to the Eye what _that_ is—” He pointed to the door, beyond which Jane Prentiss and her worms swarmed the hallways. “—to the Corruption.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martin breathed.

“The Dread Powers exist outside of the universe as we know it,” Jon went on. “Thank God, they’re not actually in here with us. So in order to spread fear, their influence slips through in small ways. Books. Artifacts.” He nodded toward the door again. “People, like Jane Prentiss. Like the Archivist, whoever that happens to be. All those monsters you’ve been reading about? Most of them were people once.” He paused, as if to let that sink in. “The Beholding’s power lies in knowing. So, now that you don’t have the cushion of ignorance, you _need_ to be careful.”

“Okay,” Sasha said quietly. “Alright. But, this whole thing that we have now?” She gestured between them. “This can’t end once we’re out of danger. If we get out of this alive, you tell us what we need to know.”

Jon looked pained, but he nodded.

“There has to be a balance, right?” Martin spoke up. “Between knowing enough to protect ourselves, and feeding ourselves to a, a fear god, or whatever.” Jon gave him a weary look, and Martin shook his head stubbornly. “Clearly you know plenty. And so did—so does Gertrude, right? If she was the Archivist before me—”

“Hopefully she still is,” Jon muttered.

“Right. But she was alright, wasn’t she?” Martin hesitated. “I mean, I didn’t really know her, but I saw her enough to know she wasn’t some shambling, um…” He gestured vaguely at the door. “A-anyway, if she could be the Archivist for however many years, and you could know all of this without becoming a monster… I think Sasha and I have a chance. Tim, too.”

“You’ve got a lot riding on the assumption that I’m not turning into a monster,” Jon said wryly.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, you’ve been an ass ever since I got here,” Martin assured him. Jon made a noise that was half-amused, half-sheepish. “But you’re not a monster.” He hesitated, eyes flickering toward Sasha. “You did sort of save us, back there.”

“Right.” Jon looked away. “Well. Wasn’t about to leave you two there.”

In the silence that followed, Martin checked the window again. There was still no sign of Tim, which was worrying, but no sign of Tim meant no obvious Tim-shaped lump beneath the layers of worms. What he could see from this angle was the open door to the office, where Prentiss was pulling down document boxes, opening them, and…

“See anything out there?” Sasha asked.

“I _think_ she’s destroying statements,” Martin replied, swallowing down the bile in his throat. “Jon, any reason why she’d do that?”

“Could be a territorial issue,” said Jon. “The institute takes statements about encounters with other entities, which feed the Eye. Some see the Eye as a parasite among the powers, feeding on fear that rightfully belongs to the others.”

“Oh great,” Sasha groused. “Not only do I work for a god of fear, I work for the one that the other fear gods hate.” With a harsh sigh, she let the back of her head knock against the wall she was leaning on.

A strange look crossed her face. She did it again, harder this time.

“Sasha, what are you doing?” Martin asked.

“Come here for a second.” Sasha turned around, pressing her ear to the wall. She knocked again. Martin joined her a moment later, listening, and this time he heard it, as well.

“The wall isn’t solid,” he said. “Jon, if there are any secret passages down here that you’d like to tell us about, now’s the time.”

“Of course not,” Jon said firmly. Martin knocked louder, and the hollow thud rang out in the muted space. “There… there shouldn’t be.”

Martin weighed his options, then made his decision. “Sasha, stand back, will you?” He grabbed one of the fire extinguishers and hefted it.

“Er, wait a moment—” Jon began.

“Do you have a better idea?” Martin asked.

“Well… no.”

The heavy canister tore through the plasterboard easily. Martin pulled it out of the fresh hole, bracing himself for worms. When none emerged, he hit the wall again, After a few more blows, there was a hole in the wall just big enough to fit him.

Cool, stale-smelling air wafted in from the darkness beyond.

Sasha turned back to Jon, visibly unimpressed. Jon was leaning heavily on the desk to keep the weight off of his bad leg, mouth open in blank shock.

“I—I swear to you,” he stammered out. “I know you don’t—you don’t trust me, and I understand that, but I swear to you, I did not know there was anything behind the walls.”

“Let’s just go,” Martin said. “Please? Jon, can you walk?”

Gingerly, Jon tested his injured leg. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

“ _Men_ ,” Sasha muttered, and went over to duck under one of his arms. “Come on.”

“I-I really don’t—”

“I’ve got two legs walk, you’ve got two arms to hold the fire extinguisher,” Sasha cut him off, nudging him to lean on her. “Look at that—one functional body between us.”

“Right.” Cautiously, Jon let Sasha take his weight. “Right. Thank you.”

“I can hold the light,” Martin offered. “Jon, mind if I use your phone?”

“Go ahead. I’m just as lost as both of you anyway. Oh, wait—” Jon hobbled back to retrieve the tape recorder. “Might as well bring this along.”

“Why?” Sasha asked. “The door’s still sealed off from the worms.”

“Yes, but the wall isn’t,” Jon pointed out. “Also, if we do happen to die in there, I’d rather one of us be clutching a convenient recording of it for whoever happens to find us.”

“Charming,” Sasha said dryly, as she helped him through the hole in the wall.

Martin looked back one last time, Jon’s phone in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other, and followed them through. The floor beneath them turned from linoleum to rough stone, and the dank cellar smell surrounded them like a fog.

“Actually—tape’s still running, isn’t it?” said Sasha. “So Jon—tell us more about these entities. You explained the Eye already, but you also mentioned the Corruption? And in the other tape you said something about the Lonely—that’s another one, right?”

“Right.” Jon sounded resigned. “So—Corruption. Also called the Filth, the Hive and the Crawling Rot…”

* * *

Tim jogged the rest of the way from the shop, two bags swinging from his hand. The line at the register was shorter than he’d expected, and at this rate he’d make it back to the institute with time to spare.

Crossing the street, he was so focused on watching for traffic that he missed the pedestrian stepping off the curb from the opposite direction.

So, the collision was a sort of inevitable. Which wouldn’t have been bad, if the other pedestrian hadn’t been carrying a large iced latte with a regrettably loose lid.

Tim leapt back, scrambled onto the sidewalk, and looked down in dismay at the cold espresso now coating the front of his shirt. “Oh, come on!”

“Shit, sorry, are you okay—?”

Tim waved him off, more worried about preventing the coffee from spreading down to the front of his pants. “It’s fine, I’m _fine_ —Sorry about your coffee.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry again.” Tim caught a brief glimpse of dark purple hair, and then the other man was gone.

So—options. He could just keep going to work like this, but then he’d have to sit through the rest of the day reeking of stale coffee. And maybe risk spreading coffee around the archives while it was still wet—God, he didn’t want to do that to Martin.

On the other hand, he didn’t live too far from work. That was by design; he’d packed up and gotten the hell out of his old flat as soon as he got the job in the first place. So if he went home and changed, he’d only stretch his lunch break maybe twenty minutes over the usual hour.

Might as well. Maybe it’d take a little heat off Sasha for playing hooky.

Grumbling to himself, Tim turned around and headed for the tube. The others would just have to wait for him.

* * *

“—honestly rather fascinating. As glad as I am that Tim was out of the archives when the attack began, it’s almost a shame he isn’t here to see this—hold on.” Jon paused for breath, adjusting his grip on the fire extinguisher. “Thank you, Sasha. Anyway, Robert Smirke most likely designed these tunnels, and Tim seems at least academically interested in his work. Which, admittedly, was also worrying, especially given his preoccupation with clowns.”

Despite everything, even her best efforts, Sasha couldn’t help but appreciate Jon. Obviously, she wasn’t about to forgive and forget nearly a full year of secrets, lies, and surly moods. Nor did Jon seem to expect it from her.

But she could appreciate a man who could keep up on one good leg, lugging a fire-extinguisher, while swarms of supernatural worms ambushed them in the dark. And during quiet moments like this, his near constant stream of chatter was a welcome distraction.

“Robert Smirke?” Ahead of them, Martin swept the light back and forth across the tunnel. “He’s that architect, right?”

“Noted for, among other things, the Royal Mint, Covent Garden Theatre, and the British Museum,” Jon replied.

“I think we have a couple of his books up in the library,” Martin said thoughtfully. “I always wondered what architecture had to do with, you know, the spooky stuff.”

Jon huffed out a dry laugh. “Martin, Smirke was the one who classified the Dread Powers as we know them. They’re called ‘Smirke’s Fourteen’ in some circles.”

Oh, Tim was going to have an absolute field day when they saw him again. “What circles?” Sasha asked, half curious, half incredulous.

“Don’t know. Gertrude mentioned it, that’s all.” Jon went quiet, and scrape of footsteps on stone filled the silence in its place.

“W-what about circuses?” Martin asked hesitantly. “Don’t tell me clowns secretly serve fear gods, too.”

“Of course they do,” Sasha said. “Have you ever seen a clown up close? They’ve got—what— _Spiral_ written all over them.”

Jon shifted his weight against her. “Stranger, actually.”

“What—Jon, I was _joking_.”

“It’s, well… the Stranger deals with the uncanny, with things that should be familiar but aren’t, so…”

“Shit,” Sasha breathed. Jon had mentioned _skin_.

“Sasha…” Jon began, and she could already hear the question without him needing to give it voice.

“I can’t,” she said firmly. “Yes, I know, but—please don’t ask me. It’s not my place to speak for him, especially when he’s not here. You can ask him yourself when we get out of this.”

“Right,” Jon said softly. “Of course.”

“There’s a fork up ahead,” Martin spoke up again. The three of them slowed to a halt, and Martin passed the light back and forth between two possible routes. “Right one looks more uphill than left, I think.”

“There should be rhyme and reason to them, especially if they’re Smirke’s work,” Jon mused. “He was obsessed with balance in his designs. Thought he could somehow control or contain the powers if he achieved the right balance between them all.”

“Oh,” said Martin. “Does… that help us get out of here?”

“Probably not,” Jon admitted. “You’re right about the path slanting upward, though.”

They started off again. Sasha listened for the telltale hiss of worms, but heard nothing. “Was he right?” she asked, when she deemed it safe.

“Hm?”

“Smirke. Was he right about… about controlling or containing the powers?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Jon replied. “His buildings tend to attract hauntings, apparently. But I couldn’t tell you whether it was because of his architectural design, or because he spent so long studying these things that they took an interest right back.”

“Oooh, _fantastic_ ,” Martin muttered. From the sound of it he meant to say it under his breath, but sound carried down here.

“So Jon,” Sasha went on, eager to keep the silence from pressing in. “You have to have seen a few things over the years. Had run-ins with these entities. How do they stack up against each other?”

Jon was silent for a moment. “Sasha, are you asking me to rank the Dread Powers?”

“Maybe—you know what, yeah. Write me a listicle.”

“Oh, good lord.” It was equal parts sigh and quiet, wheezy chuckle. “I’d have to think about that. One to fourteen, most to least traumatic.”

“So they’ve—” Martin broke in, almost shyly. “You’ve been attacked before.”

“I wasn’t speculating when I said this was dangerous,” Jon replied. “You know, Sasha once threatened to look up my hospital records. Let’s just say we might have had this conversation months earlier, if she had.”

“Don’t make me regret respecting your privacy.”

“To be fair, you did steal my phone, then break into my desk while I was besieged in my flat—”

“Good times,” Sasha retorted. “Nice drawings, by the way. Didn’t take you for an artist.”

Jon froze, missed a step, and stumbled. Sasha managed to catch him before he fell, but from the swearing, she guessed that he’d put weight on the wrong leg.

“Sorry,” she said, confused. “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve?”

“It’s—it’s fine. I just—I forgot those were in there. Listen.” Jon stumbled again, forcing Sasha to stop. “Just, _l_ _isten_ , for a second.”

Ahead of them, Martin had halted as well. “What?”

Jon hesitated, gathering his thoughts, before letting them burst forth all at once. “I can’t tell you everything. And I know, I _know_ you don’t trust me, and you have every reason not to trust me, and the best way to fix that is with full disclosure, but—I _can’t_.”

Sasha ground her teeth to keep the instinctive harshness back. “Jon, we _need_ to know these things, we can’t afford to have you running around keeping secrets again just because you think you’re protecting us—”

“What if it isn’t _you_ I’m protecting?” Jon snapped. “I’ll tell you what you need to know—I’ve _been_ telling you this entire time. But I’m not going to lay myself open and expound on every little detail just to satisfy your every passing curiosity.”

“Okay, okay, guys, just—can we not do this right now?” Martin was back in their midst, careful to keep the light pointed away from their eyes. “We can discuss this later. When we’re out of here.”

“I’d rather make it clear now—” Jon began.

Martin surprised her then, staring down Jon with just the right hint of a glare. “Look me in the eye and tell me that now’s the time.”

To Jon’s credit, his stubbornness only lasted a few seconds before he looked away.

“And Sasha,” Martin went on, losing the hard edge. “I get it, okay? But as long as he isn’t hiding vital information anymore… I _think_ it’s probably fair to let him set some boundaries. Okay?”

That took a bit of the wind out of her sails, but… “Well, when you put it like that,” she conceded.

“Great. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

Martin picked up the pace after that. It wasn’t too much of a struggle to keep up, but it did widen the distance between them, just a bit. Once in a while the tunnel wall would open up to a doorway, and Martin always took the time to have a look inside. It had already saved their lives a few times, just by finding worms gathered before they could properly ambush them. So in spite of her misgivings, Sasha let him be.

Beside her, Jon had lapsed back into sullen silence, and the darkness and silence began to press in once more. In the end, it proved too much for her.

“Can I ask what I would’ve found, if I had looked up your hospital records?” Sasha asked after a while. Up ahead, Martin slowed down for a moment, looking back to make sure they were still there.

To her relief, Jon finally answered. “A number of things, over the years.”

“Care to give some examples?”

She was sure he wouldn’t, but with a harsh sigh he nodded. “Got stabbed in the shoulder with a pair of scissors, a few years back. I was, ah, stealing a Leitner. The owner took offense.”

“Jesus.” Sasha hissed in sympathy.

“Broke a few bones,” Jon went on. “And—truth be told, the majority of my injuries were from running away. Had some falls. Cut myself on wire fences. That sort of thing.”

“Did you—”

Up ahead, Martin’s strangled cry rang off the stone walls.

Jon was already pulling ahead, injured leg be damned. “Martin? Martin, what’s wrong?”

She couldn’t even see Martin anymore. He’d gone into one of the side rooms to have a look. Jon was already readying the CO2.

They were nearly to the door when Martin’s answering call reached them. His voice wavered. “I-in here. It’s… it’s not worms.”

“Christ, Martin,” Sasha breathed out. “What’s the matter, then?”

The opening was too narrow to go in side by side. Jon thrust himself in front of her—and what was the point of that, really, when Martin already said it was safe—and without warning, pushed away from her and limped forward on his own.

“Jon, what are you—”

Martin’s arm caught her mid-lunge, blocking her from grabbing him. Sasha turned to him, ready to protest, but the look on his face stopped her cold.

It was a small room. Perfectly square, dusty, and piled high with cardboard boxes, all of them filled with cassette tapes and old document folders.

And at the center of it all sat a body, slumped over on a chair as if it had simply sat down and fallen asleep on the spot. That might have even been believable, if it weren’t for the three visible gunshot wounds in the corpse’s chest.

It was shriveled now, half-preserved in the cool, dry darkness of the tunnels, but it was easy enough to see that it had once been an old woman with brown skin and silver hair.

Jon stood lopsided, hands hanging limply at his sides. His eyes were fixed on the body, barely blinking.

Sasha tried to keep her voice low, but it wasn’t much use in the suffocating silence. “Jon?”

A sound left him, wrenching free of a closed-off throat. It was a raw, wounded-animal noise, the kind that bubbled up from deep, deep within. It came out half-strangled, as Jon tried in vain to cut it off before it could escape. He swayed on his feet, flinching when Martin reached out to steady him.

“That’s—” His voice cracked. He stopped. Tried again. “That’s her.”

Martin closed his eyes. “Jon, I’m sorry—”

“It’s—no.” Jon shrugged his hand away again. “ _Later,_ we can deal with this later, I just… tapes.” He cast about the room, looking around at all the boxes piled up. “Why are there tapes? She never used tapes, _I_ was the one who used tapes—”

“Jon?” Martin cut in, not even bothering to hide his worry.

“We have to go,” Jon said, reluctantly, looking around at the boxes and the tapes and the remains of Gertrude Robinson. “We just—there’s the worms, and—”

“Alright,” Martin said gently, the way you’d talk to a frightened animal. “Okay. We’ll get out, we’ll call the police later—”

“ _No,_ ” Jon barked, then winced. “I mean—not yet. Not right away. We’ll have to eventually, but—but first we have to come back, and we have to get these tapes out of here.”

“What—” Martin blurted out. “Jon, this is a _crime scene_.”

“No, Martin, it isn’t” Jon said impatiently. “This isn’t where she died.”

“How do you even know that?”

“She was shot three times in the chest,” Sasha spoke up. The others turned to look at her, and she shrugged. “If it happened here, there would be more blood, right?”

“Right,” Jon said. “And we need these tapes. I don’t know what’s on them, but I’m sure it has to be important, and they’ll be far more use with us than sitting in a police evidence locker.”

“You’re sure about that,” Martin said nervously. “You’re sure when the police do get here, they won’t—they won’t just be able to tell we’ve moved things.”

“They won’t look that hard,” Jon said grimly. “Are we all agreed? Good. Let’s go.”

“Jon…”

“Would you like to spend the next few hours sitting with a corpse, waiting for the worms to arrive?” Jon snapped. “Let’s _go_. We can take care of this when we aren’t fleeing for our lives.”

Martin dawdled on the way out, shutting the door behind him and checking the cracks. Jon was still standing on his own, stubbornly leaning against the wall instead of Sasha. She kept a wary eye on him, watching carefully for any sign that he was about to fall over or break down.

But no—he was calm and businesslike, just as he had been while digging worms out of his own leg.

“Martin,” he said with poorly-concealed impatience.

“Just a second,” Martin replied. “Just—checking the door.”

“What for?”

“I saw Prentiss destroying records, remember? And…” Martin hesitated. “You know… s-so the worms don’t get to her.”

“They’re not going to try,” Jon said flatly. “These are entities of fear. There’s nothing for them to feed on from a corpse.”

Martin winced.

“Jon,” Sasha warned.

“I want to _leave_.” The mask cracked, just enough for Sasha to see the pleading in his eyes. “Can we just—”

He went still, and Sasha froze in place, and Martin halted in his tracks and paled.

Where there had been silence, the air was filled with familiar wet slithering.

“Should we use the gas?” Sasha asked.

“They’re faster down here,” Martin reminded her. “And that sounds like a lot of them.”

“We need to _go_ ,” Jon gritted out.

“Right. Jon—”

“I’ve got him,” said Martin. “Just _run_.”

The worst thing about it was how quiet it was. Something this horrifying, this dire, should have made more noise. There should have been a scream, or a roar—something to give voice to the terror it brought. But it didn’t. The worms didn’t have voices, at least none that Sasha could hear. The swarm descended with the same wet, roiling whisper.

And in the end—

Sasha tried to keep up. She _tried_.

She turned away from the others just for a moment, just long enough to squeeze the lever on the fire extinguisher and buy a few more seconds of breathing space. When she turned back again, Jon and Martin were just out of reach. They might as well have been a mile away; the worms had swarmed into the space between them, piling up to knee-height.

She looked up and caught sight of Martin and Jon’s wide, horrified eyes, and made a split second decision.

“Just go!” she shouted to them. “I’ll meet up with you later! Go!” Without waiting for a response, she turned and ran the other way.

She didn’t get far. The swarm was all around her, and the tunnels were dark and mazelike. Within a minute she found herself in another dead end, head swimming from breathing in too much gas. She blasted them again, buying as much time as she could before the fire extinguisher sputtered emptily in her hands, and she laughed until tears sprang to her eyes.

She stumbled back against the wall, groping for purchase against the rough, dry stone—

And her hand fell upon a knob that turned and clicked open.

With a sob of relief she tore the door open, threw herself through it, and slammed it behind her. Then she pressed herself against it, bracing it shut and waiting for the swarm to come wriggling through the cracks.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. For all Sasha knew, she could have stood there for an hour, waiting for the worms to follow her. But none did.

Sasha breathed in the clear, gas-free air, then turned around, half-expecting to find herself back in the room with Gertrude’s corpse. Which would have been unpleasant, but… bearable, probably. At least if she stayed there, she could be sure that Jon and Martin would find her later.

Instead, a long hallway stretched before her.

The rough stone of the tunnels was gone. For the first time, she realized that there was carpet beneath her feet. The walls were papered, though she couldn’t bear to look at it for long—the color hurt her eyes. They were otherwise blank, and the hallway itself stretched on and on and on until finally curving to the right.

This wasn’t right.

Sasha weighed her options between the path before her and the worms behind, and turned around.

Instead of the door, she found her own face staring back at her, tracks of tears cutting through the dust on her cheeks. The mirror hung from floor to ceiling on a blank wall, painted with that same burning shade of cheery yellow.

In her reflection, the hallway stretched behind her, still curving to the right even with the image flipped. At the farthest reach of her vision, right where the hallway curved out of sight, a familiar figure stood—impossibly tall, stretched, simultaneously boneless and many-jointed.

The glass was warm to the touch. It pulsated beneath her fingertips, as if something beat from the other side.

_From within,_ Sasha thought.

Behind her—before her—

The creature smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

* * *

Martin managed to wait until they had left the worms far behind before he started crying.

He’d dropped the fire extinguisher at some point in the confusion, when he realized he could either escape with it or escape with Jon, and at the time it hadn’t felt like a choice at all. But now, with a clear head and quiet, he felt its absence with growing dread. Jon was still injured, and now they were unarmed as well.

Slowing his pace—Jon was limping even worse than he had been before—he looked back in the direction they had come, imagining that in just a moment, Sasha would round the corner, out of breath but unharmed.

Which was a stupid thought to have. She’d gone in the opposite direction. They were well and truly separated.

Not looking where he was going, Martin tripped on an uneven bit of stone floor, nearly taking Jon down with him before he caught himself.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Jon’s voice was subdued. “I think we’ve lost them for now.”

“Or,” Martin blurted out, “they stopped chasing us because they went after Sasha instead. Because we left her behind, and now she’s alone. Alone and surrounded and—she’s probably dead, isn’t she? She’s dead and eaten by worms—”

“ _Martin._ ” Jon dragged on him until he stopped. “That’s not helping, and you know it.”

Martin’s next breath shuddered on the way in. “We just _left_ her—”

“She’s _clever,_ ” Jon cut him off again. “You know that. She’s practically cleverer than the rest of us put together—she’d almost put together everything herself before I sat you both down and explained everything. More importantly, she’s got two working legs and she’s not weighed down supporting my dead weight anymore.”

He stopped there, and Martin let the logic sink in. He was right. Sasha hadn’t been trapped. She’d been fleeing too, just in a different direction. She could be fine. They could all meet up later and… and laugh about this? Probably not. But she could be _fine_.

Martin forced himself to breathe deeply. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Martin.”

“No it’s—I got us separated, and I dropped the CO2, and now we’re lost and unarmed—”

“I _guarantee_ you,” Jon said forcefully. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve _done_ worse. Alright? Now, come on. Let’s keep moving.”

Shakily, Martin nodded and let Jon lean on him again. With nothing else to do, they continued onward, and Martin let himself think.

As much as Jon had told them already—about the institute, about the “dread powers”, about all the monsters and fears and evil books that existed in the world—he hadn’t said much about himself. About his own experiences and encounters. About what it was like, living in this world for years. It was beginning to leak through, but never enough for a clear picture.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Is it always like this for you? Martin asked.

Jon made a pensive noise. “This is… hm. Every encounter is different. Every monster has its own special brand of horror, I suppose. But, in terms of danger, it still boils down to something dangerous pursuing us, wishing us harm.” He paused. “Which is a fear in its own right.”

Martin remembered his earlier lecture, when they’d first ventured into the tunnels. “The Hunt,” he said.

“Yes.” Jon hesitated. “I’ve been chased by one of those before, too.”

“So all this time,” Martin went on. “It’s just—it’s been you and your wits, handling all these monsters alone?”

“No,” Jon said, a bit defensively. “No, I—I worked with Gertrude before. And she had… others. People who weren’t part of the institute.”

Sasha had been speculating about that, Martin remembered—before the thought of Sasha made his stomach turn, and he forced himself to turn it away. “Then couldn’t you have asked them for help, after she disappeared? Wasn’t there anyone?”

Jon’s silence lasted long enough for Martin to understand, even before he finally answered. “No. They’re all—they… There was no one I could ask. Not with this. And the few people I do have in my life—I can’t bring them into this. Not after everything. There’s just me.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said softly.

“I think I mentioned this being dangerous,” Jon replied. “I always knew it was a possibility, on some level, that I’d find myself alone. I just didn’t realize it would be this soon.”

Martin forced out a laugh. “That’s a little insulting.”

“What?”

“I mean,” Martin said with a shrug. “Here you are, talking about being alone, while I’m half-carrying you through worm-infested tunnels—”

Jon spluttered. “I didn’t mean—of course I wasn’t—” He stopped, with a sigh that sounded almost exasperated. “I didn’t mean to disregard you, I just…”

“I get it,” Martin told him. “Feeling alone when you’re surrounded by people. It happens.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t answer.

They rounded a corner together, cautiously, checking that no worms were in sight. And it was then, while scanning the gloom for any sign of Prentiss’s parasites, that Martin spotted it.

“Hey—what’s that, there? On the ceiling?”

With his eyes fixed on a single point ahead of them, he could feel Jon pulling himself to stand straighter and follow his gaze.

“That’s a handle.” Jon’s grip on him tightened. “That’s a _trapdoor_.”

Jon let go of him and limped forward under his own power, eyes fixed on the handle protruding from the ceiling. As he moved closer, Martin spotted the outline of the door around it, and the barest, thinnest line of light leaking through. The handle had a cord attached to it, dangling within reach.

“Where do you think it leads?” Martin asked.

“We’re not too deep underground, I think,” said Jon. “This could lead back up to the basement level. We could be standing underneath the Archives.”

“Well… that’s good?” Martin said hesitantly. “It’s a way out, and that’s what we’ve been looking for.”

“It could be. Or it could lead us straight back to the worms.”

“Only one way to find out, right?” Martin pointed out. “And we definitely know there are worms down here.”

For a few moments they stared at each other, mentally weighing their options.

“Right.” Jon caught hold of the end of the cord. “You should probably stand back.”

Martin scooted back, hopefully out of whatever direction the door would come down. “This better?”

“No, I mean…” Jon made a vague shooing motion. “You know. Far enough to run, if you need to.”

His meaning dawned, and Martin immediately stepped closer on principle. “Jon, don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to leave you to be eaten by worms.”

“Why not?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Just think about it,” Jon said wearily. “If I open that door and Jane Prentiss is waiting on the other side, what do you think will happen if you’re standing next to me?”

He couldn’t be serious. “ _Jon_.”

“The only thing you’ll accomplish by staying close is ensuring that we’ll _both_ be killed,” Jon went on. “And given the choice, if I’m about to let the Flesh Hive through, I’d really rather you have a head start.”

“There has to be another way,” Martin insisted. “Couldn’t we open it from afar? Or—hell, maybe we could keep going and find another exit?”

“Any exit we find would present the same problem,” Jon pointed out. “We’re below basement level, if you’ll recall. We know for a fact that there are more of Prentiss’s worms in these tunnels. And if you have any suggestions for how to open this from a safe distance, I’m all ears.”

Martin stared at him helplessly. The problem was, he couldn’t think of a good enough argument against any of that. He was exhausted, terrified, and out of ideas. At this point, even the prospect of facing Prentiss seemed preferable to staying down here a minute longer. The sooner they got out and found a way to deal with the worms, the sooner they could find Sasha.

Still… “How can you be so _calm_ about this?”

Jon sighed. “I’d be a lot calmer if you were standing at a safe distance.”

“I’m serious!”

“You think I’m not?” Jon held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Look. I’m the one who led Jane Prentiss here in the first place. And if I’d been honest with all of you from the beginning, then maybe we’d have been better prepared. It’s bad enough that Sasha—” He cut himself off. “This is my mess, Martin. The rest of you shouldn’t have to suffer for it. That’s all.” He didn’t reach for the cord again, which Martin was grateful for. It gave him time to absorb all that and gather himself together again.

The more time they spent down here, the more he realized he knew absolutely nothing about Jonathan Sims.

“I don’t think this is your fault,” he said at last.

Jon took a deep, slow breath, then let it out again. “Regardless. There is something you can do to help.” Before Martin could even ask, Jon pressed the tape recorder into his hands. “Hold that, and stand back.”

“Jon, are you _serious_ —”

“Martin.” Jon cut him off. “If we both die down here, then we could vanish, do you understand that?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m _not_ about to leave anyone wondering what happened to me,” Jon went on fiercely. “So, if you want to help me, then take that tape recorder, stand back, and if I open this door and Prentiss comes through, you _leave me and run_. Everything I know about the entities is on that tape. Make sure Tim listens to it. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Martin gritted out, hating every syllable.

“And—” Jon broke off. “And if someone comes to the institute, asking what happened to me—”

“Jon.”

“Tell them I’m sorry, and thank you, and they should know the rest. Then show them out and tell them never to come back.” Jon’s eyes were hard. “Got all of that?”

“I-I think so.” Reluctantly, Martin finally backed away from Jon and the trapdoor. The tape went into his jacket pocket. “Alright. Ready.”

“Right. Here goes.” Jon reached up, and tugged the trapdoor open.

Even from the distance, Martin could hear them slither.

“ _Oh,_ ” Jane Prentiss sang out, as the worms began to pour. “ _I remember you. The old woman’s assistant._ ”

“Martin.” Jon’s voice was pitched with terror. “ _Run_.”

Martin tried. He really did try.

* * *

Elsewhere an alarm had been pulled, and the man who wore Elias Bouchard’s face paused with his hand poised to activate the fire suppression system.

He had to wait for the mark to be properly made, for the terror to fully take hold. These things took time and patience, especially a mark of Corruption on a man like Martin Blackwood. There was so much of him to go around, after all.

His hand lingered on the lever, fingers fluttering anxiously. He could wait a bit longer. Martin was marked, he was certain, but…

But _Jon_ was still alive. This was an opportunity that came far less often than it should, considering Jon’s tendency toward rashness. If he just waited a bit longer, just until the Corruption burrowed a bit deeper, until its gnawing teeth reached soft tissue—

And then a worm bit into the flesh on Martin’s cheek, far too close to the eyes for comfort, and he pulled the lever with a heavy sigh. He imagined he could hear Jane Prentiss’s dying scream even without the help of the Eye, and then it was over. Half-buried beneath the dead hive, Martin continued to breathe—which was fortunate—and so did Jon—which was regrettable.

Couldn’t be helped. Martin himself was a rare opportunity. He wasn’t to be thrown away lightly, not even for the sake of wiping away one more vestige of Gertrude Robinson.

There would be another chance. He just needed to be patient.

* * *

Tim was waiting anxiously when Martin came out of quarantine. At some point he’d lost track of his bags from the shop, but that was the last thing on his mind.

He felt _sick_. Nausea had taken hold the second made it back to the institute and found everyone milling around outside in confusion. Ever since he’d looked through the sea of faces, and his own coworkers were nowhere among them.

Martin looked awful. He had bandages everywhere—arms, face, neck, and probably a few more that Tim couldn’t see. More worrying was the thousand-yard stare, and the fact that it took three tries to get his attention.

“Martin. Martin, hey.” Gingerly, Tim steadied him by the shoulders. “You alright? Jesus, you look awful.”

Instead of answering, Martin pressed his lips together tightly, as if suppressing the urge to puke. Tim could sympathize.

“Do you need help getting home?” he pressed, as gently as he could manage. “Or—hell, d’you even want to go home alone? I’ve got room at my place, if we just find Sasha then—”

Martin sucked in a sharp breath. “I need your help, Tim.”

“Obviously, yeah, have you been listening? If you’ve seen Sasha—”

“ _Tim._ ” His voice broke. “I-I have to go back. I have to—could you come with me? I don’t want to go by myself.”

“Go back—seriously?” Tim looked pained. “Martin, you are _not_ going back to work like this. First off, the ECDC hasn’t cleared the whole building yet, and second off, you need to go _home_.”

Martin shook his head, wincing when he jarred one of his injuries. “I can’t, not yet. Tim, there’s tunnels under the institute—that’s how we escaped the first attack—we have to go back, Tim—”

“Martin, will you just—”

“ _She’s still down there, Tim_ ,” Martin sobbed out. “I have to find her, we didn’t—I didn’t—Jon was injured, and there were worms everywhere, and—”

Tim froze. “Where’s Jon now?”

“Hospital,” Martin replied. Something flickered in his eyes. “He, uh—he got it worse than me. Way worse.” He must have seen something in Tim’s face, because he followed that immediately with, “He saved our lives, Tim.”

“And Sasha?”

“I’m _sorry_.” Martin’s voice broke again. “We didn’t mean to leave her behind, but the worms—they were so much faster, and we got separated, and…” His voice trailed off. “We have to go back. To find her, and… and there’s something else.”

“What else could there possibly be?” Tim demanded, fighting to keep his voice down. Ice was spreading through his veins, freezing him from inside out.

Martin’s eyes flickered around, as if searching for eavesdroppers. “Not here,” he said. “I promise I’ll explain everything, as soon as we’re down in the tunnels.”

Tim ground his teeth. “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “Come on, then. The sooner we get there, the sooner we find Sasha.”

“Yeah. And—” Martin’s hand slipped into his pocket. “There’s, um. Something you really need to listen to.”

* * *

He was awake long before he opened his eyes.

Force of habit, really. You could learn a lot of things by convincing the people around you that you were asleep.

In this case, he very quickly learned that he was in a hospital, that he was alive, and that he was not alone. The first two were obvious from the sounds and sensations around him, and the fact that he was hearing and feeling them at all. As for the third—

Well. That was a number of things. The sound of nearby breathing that was not his own. The slight dip in the hospital mattress, where someone was leaning. The pervasive feeling of safety, persisting even when memories leaked through and he remembered how he’d gotten here.

The institute. Jane Prentiss. The worms. The tunnels, deep and dark and twisting, eventually leading to—

Jon’s eyes dragged open. He tried to shift, to roll over, only for his body to remind him, in no uncertain terms, exactly why he was lying in a hospital bed. He barely managed a strangled groan of pain.

The dip in the mattress rose, and a cool hand felt its way into his. “Hey—hey, quit moving. Swear you’ve got more holes than body at this point. Three-quarters holes, that’s you.”

“You have to go.” He tried to say it. His voice was a hoarse, broken mess. “You have to—what are you even doing here?” He broke off to cough, which, turned out to be a terrible idea. “What if—someone sees you?”

“Melanie’s playing lookout—hey, is this hand alright? Nurses said this hand didn’t have any bites in it, and I’m not feeling gauze.” Without waiting for an answer, the hand holding him gently squeezed. “Jon? Can you hear me?”

“You have to get out,” Jon repeated. “Now, you—you’re not safe. It’s not safe.” Dimly he was aware of beeping, the indicator of a heartbeat speeding up.

“Jon. Listen to me. You’re panicking.” The grounding voice cut through the screaming in his head. “Gonna need you to count. Actually, no. I’ll count, you breathe.”

“ _Gerry_ ,” Jon pleaded.

“One,” was the only reply, and sheer force of habit made Jon breathe in time with the numbers.

Eventually the fog cleared, the alarms in his head died down, and breathing stopped feeling so complicated. Jon blinked at the fluorescent lights above, and they blurred wetly.

“Gertrude’s dead.” The words were out before he registered the desire to speak them. The hand clutching his went still. “She’s—we found her. In the tunnels beneath the institute. She’s dead.”

He didn’t turn to look at him, too afraid of what he might find. So he watched the blurry lights, listened to Gerry’s deep, shuddering breath, and tried to fit his mind around the knowledge that now sat heavy in his skull.

“Was it peaceful?” Gerry asked after a moment.

_Three shots to the chest._ “No.”

“Well. At least she went out the way she would have liked.”

Jon managed a noise that was maybe a sob and maybe a laugh. It hurt to make it. “Wasn’t the People’s Church,” he gritted out. “It was—someone else. Maybe Elias?”

“Jon, you’ve really got to let yourself breathe—”

“You’re not _safe._ ”

“And I never have been,” Gerry replied, with infuriating, infectious calm.

Jon breathed.

“Your new Archivist’s alright, by the way,” Gerry went on. “He didn’t even need a hospital stay, just a visit to quarantine. Oh, and your friend Tim? He never even touched a worm. Melanie and I—Georgie called us, and we intercepted him on our way in. He’s fine.”

Jon nodded. “Sasha?”

Gerry sighed heavily. “Haven’t heard. But—you know. No news is good news. She could still—wait, hang on, back up. Did you say tunnels under the institute?”

“Smirke’s work, probably.”

“Huh. She lied right to my face.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jon murmured.

At last he turned his head, blinking the tears away so he could have a proper look at Gerry’s face. It was much the same as it had been the last time he saw it, when he left the flat for the institute that morning. Same deep purple hair, same snakebite piercing, same scarf, same blue eyes focused just left of eye contact. Jon’s attention turned downward to the hand he still held, the skin on each knuckle roughened with pale scarring where tattoos had once been.

“You’re not safe here,” he murmured.

“Maybe not,” Gerry admitted. “But I didn’t want to wait around. I figured, knowing you, you’d be held up getting home.”

“I’m going to miss dinner,” Jon murmured.

“You’ve been good lately,” Gerry assured him. “Very punctual. Since this is your first strike in a while, I think Georgie’ll let you off this once.” He sat up straighter, reaching out to find Jon’s shoulder. “Now, I’ve got to run home. I left Tom by himself and I haven’t had the chance to feed him.”

Sleep was creeping back in, but Jon struggled to stay awake enough to answer. “That’s a capital crime, Mr. Delano.”

“Oh, don’t you start. You spoil him enough as it is.” Gerry stood up, grabbed the cane leaning against his chair, and finally let Jon’s hand slip from his. “I’ll be back later. If you’re not still alive by then, I’ll be very upset.”

“Be careful,” Jon answered. “Please? Promise me—”

“Yeah, Jon, I promise.” Gerry’s hand brushed along the mattress to tug the blanket up. “I’ll be back. Get some rest.”

Jon couldn’t quite muster a reply. It wasn’t long before consciousness slipped, and he fell asleep to footsteps and the quiet click of a cane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEVER SAID THE EX JON WAS STAYING WITH WAS GEORGIE AND I NEVER SAID ALL HIS CAT PICS WERE OF THE ADMIRAL YOU ALL JUST ASSUMED THAT
> 
> I've been waiting to reveal this part for far too long. This chapter is almost 13k words long..


	11. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more, from another angle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally going to include these in the story, I mainly wrote them to share with friends and figure out some characterization details. But they're a lot of fun! So I hope you enjoy them.

**#0**

_Hello._

_I hope you’re doing well. I know it’s been a while, since we last talked._

_And we didn’t exactly part on the best terms._

_I know you didn’t tell me not to contact you again, exactly._

_But I thought it best to keep my distance, considering how things ended._

_And I will continue to do so, if you want. Say the word, and you won’t hear from me again._

_Or don’t say anything at all._

_That would send the same message, I suppose._

_But, if you’re alright with it, I’d like it if we could talk._

_I’ve missed you._

_What time are you free_

* * *

**#1**

When he hears the knock at the appointed time, Gerry already has the tape ready.

_Click._

“ _Ready?_ ” he hears his own voice say. “ _Alright, it’s the twenty-fifth of May, 2014. Go._ ”

A pause. “ _Wait, what should I say?_ ” Jon asks, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a moment in relief. It’s been a while since he last heard it, but it’s just as familiar as it ever was. That’s good. He doesn’t want to think about what it would mean if he didn’t recognize it.

The recording continues as he rises from the couch and makes his way to the front door. “ _I dunno. Don’t think it matters, long as you talk. Say a dirty limerick or something._ ”

“ _I don’t know any—_ ”

On the recording, a door opens and another familiar voice follows it. “ _There you are—_ _w_ _hat on earth are you two doing?_ ”

“ _Oh, morning, Gertrude!_ ” Jon says brightly. “ _Just taking a precaution._ ”

Gerry stops the tape, grabs the crowbar he keeps by the door, and answers it.

The first thing he hears is a sharp intake of breath, in a voice that may be Jon’s or may not be. He waits, but the only thing that follows is more breathing.

“You’re gonna have to say something,” Gerry says at last.

“O-oh.” Another breath. “Er. You… changed your hair?”

It comes out as a nervous squeak. But it’s Jon’s nervous squeak.

“What color is it?” Gerry asks.

“It’s—purple?” Jon hesitates. “…It looks good.”

He talks the same way you’d walk on ice, careful not to slip up or tread on something breakable. Gerry sighs, puts the crowbar back, and steps aside to open the door fully. “Get in.”

“Right,” Jon whispers, and carefully brushes past him.

The tea’s about ready. It took some work, re-learning how to make tea. Technically he’s still banned from using the kettle at Melanie’s place, after what happened last time. He’s pretty sure he remembers how Jon takes his, but just in case, he’s left the pot and the sugar and milk out for Jon to pour it as he likes.

Jon waits for Gerry to sit back down on the couch before taking his own seat, a respectful distance away. Gerry appreciates it, even as something cries out in protest deep within him.

He pushes it down.

“So,” he says, hands locked together in front of him. “Dark purple, yeah?”

Jon goes still. “What?”

“The hair. The purple’s dark? Not, I dunno, lavender or something?”

“No, it’s dark purple,” Jon says, sounding faintly confused. “Did you not know, or…?”

“Melanie helped me pick it out, so I couldn’t be sure,” Gerry explains.

“Melanie?”

“King. From that Youtube show you hate.”

“I… see.”

Gerry shrugs. “Wouldn’t put it past her to play a joke.”

“You, er, couldn’t ask Georgie?” He can hear Jon fidgeting. “You two are still friends, right?”

“Georgie would cover for her, no questions asked.”

“Oh. Are they close?”

“Guess so. We’ve all sort of been…” His voice trails off. He’s not sure how to put it into words in a way that won’t scare Jon off or send him sinking into his usual pit of self-loathing. “Georgie was—I sort of ended up on her doorstep, and she didn’t run me off. Then Melanie turned up one day, and we didn’t _not_ get along, and Georgie sort of jumped on that. _One person doesn’t make a support system, Gerry,_ you know how she is.”

Jon breathes out a soft laugh. “Yes, I remember.”

Funny how he can hear it when Jon’s smiling. He never really appreciated the sound of it, before. It’s almost nice.

Pity he might have to ruin it. “So what’d you bring?” Gerry asks.

It’s the little pause that sends his heart sinking, before Jon finally replies. “How do you know I brought something?”

“Heard it hit the floor when you sat down,” Gerry answers. “And you took a bit to answer just now, so… I’m guessing it’s not a present.”

Jon’s quiet again. “I couldn’t think of anything to get you,” he says.

He sounds so genuinely heartbroken over the fact that it’s almost funny. “Well, I’m hard to shop for. And it’s sort of hard to beat your first present.”

“Yes, well—unfortunately I couldn’t find a burned Leitner to present to you.” The cloth bag rustles as Jon lifts it off the floor. “And this isn’t… exactly from me.”

“Yeah,” Gerry says quietly. “I figured. So. What’d Gertrude send you to bring me.”

“I—Gerry, that’s not the only reason I’m here, I _wanted_ to see you, I swear—”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The silence lasts longer this time.

Every second of it is torture. Gerry grits his teeth, because he remembers exactly what Jon’s face looks like when you hit him where it hurts and he swore he wouldn’t—

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” Jon answers finally.

And that—

That makes sense, now that he thinks about it. After the things Gerry said, before they parted ways, why _wouldn’t_ Jon think he wanted nothing to do with him?

Gerry lets the back of his head rest against the top of the couch. It hurts, it really does, that it took an errand from Gertrude to get him to come here. It hurts because the ball’s been in his court the whole time and he didn’t even realize it.

“I’m sorry,” says Jon.

“I know.”

“I should’ve told you before I came.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

That pulls him up short. Because he could say yes, and he’s pretty sure Jon would go. No, forget pretty sure, he’s _certain_ he would. Because Jon, for all his faults, has been giving him one out after another, and he means every one. If Gerry asks, Jon will walk out that door and never come back.

The howling thing in his chest voices its protests again.

“I don’t want you gone,” he says. “Beyond that, I’m not sure. But I’m not telling you to leave.”

The _yet_ hangs in the air between them.

“What does Gertrude want with me?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” Jon answers, a little desperately. “I mean, she’s off—you know. Doing what she usually does. And she said something about a contingency, which involved bringing you this, whatever it is. Once she’s back, you won’t have to worry about it.”

“So she just asked you to deliver something?”

“Right, yes.”

“What is it?”

“I… don’t know,” Jon admits. “I haven’t looked. I think it’s one of those ‘only in the worst case scenario’ situations.”

“Alright. Fuck it, then, I won’t worry about it yet.” Gerry sits up and grabs his phone off the coffee table. “I’m ordering in. You still like that Caribbean place in Brixton?”

The couch cushion dips as Jon sits up. “Haven’t been there in a while, but yes.”

It’s not until Gerry gets off the phone that he hears the familiar jingle of a collar from down the hall. Jon tries to muffle a noise of delight, and fails.

“Took you long enough,” Gerry says as the cushions dip slightly again. A tail brushes his hand, and its owner meows at him for several seconds.

“Someone likes to talk,” Jon remarks. “What’s your name, then?” The meows give way to loud purring.

In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Gerry grins. He can’t help it. Jon is back, after a year, and muscle memory is pulling him into familiar rhythms, even when so much has changed, even when the yawning wrongness still hovers between them. Jon is here, sitting beside him, fawning over his cat, and if he focuses he can guess what kind of look is on his face right now.

It’s a nice image to hold in his head.

“His name’s Tom Tildrum,” Gerry says. “And he’s a menace.”

* * *

**#2**

Gerry almost forgets to play the tape when he hears the lock click and the front door open. The habit hasn’t quite worn its way back into his muscle memory yet, especially since before, when all he had to do was glance at the polaroid in his wallet. That’s not an option anymore, and hasn’t been for quite some time.

Still, Jon’s voice matches up perfectly to the one on the tape when he strides in, flops down on the couch next to him, and growls out, “You would not _believe_ the day I’ve had.”

“Bold claim.” There’s still space between them. Not as much as there was the first week, though. “Trouble at the office, I take it?”

“It was the new _head archivist’s_ first day on the job.”

“Ahhh.” Gerry sighs, pouring what he feels is the appropriate amount of sympathy into the noise. It isn’t much. “Is he a knob, then?”

“No!” Jon bursts out, before going still. The following sigh is a heavy, tight noise, the sound of Jon putting himself and his feelings on a tight leash. “No. He’s not. He caught me getting Gertrude’s files out of her desk, and he looked like he wanted to apologize to _me_ for barging in. Asked me how I take my tea, spent the day hovering and trying to help. He’s _nice._ ”

“…Ah.” Gerry’s not sure what to say to that. There’s lots that he _could_ say, but not without jeopardizing the fragile thing mending itself between them. So instead, he reaches across the space, hesitates, and lets his hand rest right in the middle in a silent offer. After a single stalled moment, Jon reaches back and covers Gerry’s offered hand with his own.

“That’s the worst part,” Jon says quietly. “He’s walking straight to the scaffold all on his own, and he’s so damned _nice_.”

Gerry doesn’t need the Eye to know that if he angles his arm just so and reached across far enough, he’ll be able to finger-comb Jon’s hair the way he ~~usually~~ always used to do when he needed Jon to calm the fuck down. He remembers the texture of it between his fingers, and wonders how Jon has his hair at the moment. Is it loose? Or did he tie it with a rubber-band again?

The desire to know shocks him into action before he can think better of it. He reaches over, finds the messy ponytail and follows it up to the rubber-band holding it in place, and only remembers himself when Jon freezes at the touch.

He’s done this a million times—touched Jon’s hair, teased him over the state of it—but not in at least a year. The gesture is achingly familiar but out of practice, and now the ache burrows so sharp and deep that he can’t tell whether it’s healing or ripping at old wounds.

Overwhelmed, he takes his hand back.“Torture, isn’t it?”

He hears the whisper of Jon’s breath as he lets it out. “I don’t know how you did it,” he murmurs. “I must have been _infuriating_.”

“Nah.” Gerry scoffs quietly. “Wasn’t you. Just the people that put you there.” He won’t name names, not when blame is an eggshell he’d rather not step on. Especially now, with Gertrude still missing.

Beside him, Jon huffs. “Nobody put me there but me,” he says. “I knew perfectly well what I was getting myself into.”

Gerry doesn’t answer.

“I _did_.”

Gerry makes a noncommittal noise that could reasonably be taken for agreement, if one wants to avoid an argument.

Jon does so. “And now I have to deal with someone who doesn’t know a thing, and just—try to make sure he doesn’t stumble into anything deadly while Gertrude’s gone.”

He won’t say one way or the other, but Jon talks about her like she’ll be back any day now, bloodstained and smelling faintly of smoke. Gerry hopes for his sake that he’s right.

* * *

* * *

**#3**

The knocking wakes him up again, maybe. It’s growing increasingly difficult for Jon to tell whether he sleeps at all, or simply falls into an exhausted trance. He doesn’t recall any dreams, and he never feels rested, anyway.

(Not that he ever feels truly rested, these days. Not since—)

It’s a war of attrition. He is besieged in his flat with clean water and a steady supply of nonperishable food, so his captor’s only option is to exhaust him. Drive him mad from it. Wear him down until his vigilance cracks, and he leaves some sort of opening that lets her in.

…Or perhaps this is simply fun for her. The Corruption may not be known for relishing the chase, but it’s not like the Hunt is the only fear that plays with its food.

No, stop. Don’t focus on how it hurts and why. Focus on the assets.

Food. As long as he keeps rationing wisely, he has at least a month before he has to worry about the possibility of starving. That leaves him with plenty of time to work out a plan of escape, or to outlast her, or to give up on subtlety and burn his way out.

Protection. His apartment is virtually airtight. Nothing’s getting in through the door or the windows, the vents are screened, and the worms apparently haven’t found a way to get through the pipes. Moreover, he has all his fabric piled in one place in case he needs to plug a hole quickly. There’s a blowtorch in his closet and various flammable substances stashed around the flat, if he really wants to get drastic.

Water. Steady and plentiful. The heat’s off, so any showers he takes are cold, but that’s so far down on his list of concerns, it’s almost laughable.

His phone. Not that he’s about to call the emergency line and subject some unsuspecting patrol officer to an avatar of the Corruption, but it has its uses.

As if on cue, his phone chimes with a text.

 _Swear to fuck_ _every time_ _someone tries to “help” me off the train_ _I inch closer to the Slaughter._

In spite of everything about his own situation, Jon winces in sympathy. Gerry always used to chafe at the threat of being coddled. He can’t imagine how it must be for him now.

 _Must be difficult to resist the call,_ he writes back. _You’ve got a cane to beat them with and everything._

A pause. Three dots. _I could always take up arson again,_ Gerry continues.

_Take your pick. Slaughter or Desolation._

_At least if I was a wax freak people would stop TOUCHING ME._

Prentiss knocks again, and Jon jolts so violently that he drops his phone.

By the time he comes back into himself, he has another text. This one’s from Georgie; opening it reveals the Admiral upside down in a toddler playpen, orange belly exposed. Moments later, a caption follows.

_Jailed for hissing crimes. >:(_

Jon laughs quietly. There in the middle of his unheated flat, surrounded on all sides by the crawling rot, he laughs and answers, _Free him._

It would be the simplest thing in the world, to call them. He wants to hear another human voice so desperately that it lodges in his chest like a lump of lead. But he can’t trust himself to pretend that nothing is wrong, at least not well enough to convince them. Especially Gerry.

But this is enough to steady him. It’s enough to settle the fear and send him drifting into that hazy space between sleep and reality, where his mind can place him somewhere he isn’t alone, where he isn’t trapped in his flat like a wounded animal chased down a hole to starve in the dark.

 _Knock, knock_.

He wakes again and swallows the tears. Shakes off the half-formed dream of human voices and arms around him. Remembers that Tim would have gone to Carlos Vittery’s flat if he hadn’t gotten there first. Remembers that he and Sasha are inseparable, and Martin is well on his way to joining them, and if any one of them had been gone this long, the others would have wandered into the flesh hive’s reach looking for them.

He remembers that Gerry got out, against all odds, and the last thing Jon wants is to drag him back in.

_This is for the best. Take me, not them._

* * *

* * *

**#4**

Jon sits in his flat and just _breathes_.

For the first time in two weeks, he can afford to let vigilance slip without risking a very unpleasant death. The hospital sent him home, both he and his building have a clean bill of health, the windows are open and the cracks around the door unplugged, and there’s not a worm in sight.

He knows there isn’t. The ECDC chased her out for good. He’s fine. He’s safe.

Unfortunately his body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, because when a knock comes at the door, it locks up with sudden, overwhelming panic. For a few seconds he’s trapped again, hiding in his barricaded flat and listening to the knocking at the door and the wet, slick whisper of worms probing for a way in.

Jon isn’t sure how long he sits there, frozen, before his phone buzzes in his hand. It’s a text from Gerry: _Are you home? I’m knocking and I can’t hear you inside._

Something bubbles up in his throat, and when it nearly escapes it sounds suspiciously like a sob of relief. Of course it’s Gerry. Of course Jon is still fine, still safe. Just because it’s a knock at the door doesn’t mean it’s Prentiss; Jon doesn’t have a doorbell and it’s not like the Flesh Hive has a monopoly on knocking to be let in.

Another text comes— _Fuck don’t tell me I have the wrong_ _flat_ _._ —and Jon finishes forcing his emotions into a more presentable shape. There’s a rumpled, creased Polaroid in his wallet, and Jon takes a moment to glance at it before answering the door.

Gerry looks exactly the way he’s supposed to, except for the quiet fury on his face. “Hi, Jon,” he says with what Jon can only describe as an angry smile. “Let’s talk, shall we?”

“Come in,” Jon answers, and steps aside just in time to avoid getting his shins whacked by Gerry’s cane. It’s probably by accident.

Once the door is closed, Gerry drops the leash on his temper. “I always knew you were an idiot, but _this?_ ” he grits out. “What were you thinking? How long were you even in here?”

“Not that long.” He knows that intellectually, at least. “A little over a week. Barely got through half my emergency food, and the water was still working. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“ _Wasn’t in any_ —” Gerry cuts off what’s sure to be a tirade of some kind. Jon recognizes it well, fear and worry all tangled and wrapped up in anger. He remembers how it used to make him feel: soft gratitude, for Gerry’s rough, unpolished care; guilt, for scaring him so badly in the first place; occasional irritation, for being treated as helpless.

But now he can’t feel any of that, because his heart is still pounding from hearing a knock at the door, and all he can focus on are the scarred knuckles of Gerry’s hands, one gripping the cane, the other curled into an empty fist.

Absurdly, he wants to touch them, because—well, how long has it been since he last touched another person? Far more than ten days, because he wasn’t in the habit even before the Corruption besieged his flat. He never had to think about it before then, and now…

Now it’s the only coherent thought his head can manage.

“Are you listening?” Gerry demands, and the answer is no, of course.

“Y—no. Sorry, I’m a bit—distracted.” Jon blinks at him, forcing his eyes away from Gerry’s hands. “What did you say?”

“I _said_ , there was no good reason for you to be sitting here, up to your eyeballs in worms, when you _literally_ had your phone on you the whole time!” Gerry glares in his direction, only slightly off from Jon’s face. “The Thursday before last, we had an entire text conversation about that stupid Youtube video you sent me _,_ and you didn’t think that maybe it’d be a good idea to say _hey Gerry, not that Drunk History isn’t fascinating but I’ve got worms trying to crawl through my bedroom window while I sleep, think you could give me a hand?_ Honestly—”

“But you—why would I—?” Jon stops, frowning.

“Why would you what? Tell me you’re in trouble? D’you think that’s not something I’d want to know about, you know, now that we’re _talking again?_ ”

“I-I don’t know,” Jon says helplessly. “I was just—I was handling it, and I didn’t want to drag you back into all this—”

God, it didn’t used to be like this. Once upon a time, it was simple. They got into something dangerous, they got out, and they had each other. Jon Sims and Gerry Keay, stuck in the same boat together and never having to struggle alone. Back then Jon would never have hesitated to just reach out and—

He drops his hand to his side the moment he realizes he’s trying again. That’s not—he can’t do that anymore, with Gerry. He lost that right. Things are different now, and he has to—he can’t just—

“Jon.” Gerry’s voice is softer now, losing the edge of worried anger.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Jon blurts out. “You just—you _left_ , and I understand why you left, and the only reason I saw you again is because Gertrude told me to, and I should’ve—I could’ve told her no and left you alone, or I could have visited before that without her telling me to, but I didn’t, and now—I don’t even know where we stand now, I don’t know what’s allowed and what isn’t, but I… after everything, I couldn’t just…”

His tongue decides that’s enough words for now and locks up. Jon’s eyes stray toward Gerry’s hands again, no longer white-knuckled but just as much of an aching temptation. He tries to turn his focus back on Gerry’s face, even though it doesn’t make all that much of a difference where he’s looking if Gerry can’t see it anyway. It’s the principle of the thing.

And Gerry… just stares, for a little while. Looking at him is like reading a half-forgotten language. He used to know it so well, every twitch of the lips and furrowing of the brow, but in the space of a lonely year Jon has gotten rusty at reading him.

He hasn’t forgotten everything, though. He recognizes the firm set in Gerry’s jaw, and his eyes still grow sharp the way when he makes up his mind about something.

“Okay,” Gerry murmurs, wringing the hand holding his cane. “ _Okay._ ”

He lets the cane fall, and it’s only by luck that it comes to rest leaning up against the coffee table. He takes two steps forward, and it takes him two tries to find Jon’s shoulders but he gets there, and he pulls Jon into a hug before Jon can think to wonder what he’s decided on.

“Almost forgot how much you need looking after,” Gerry says, as Jon tries not to shake apart against him. He’s surrounded by warm, familiar touch, and so much after so long with nothing is enough to force the tears out.

“W-wait, but—” Jon’s throat seizes. “What about—”

“If I wanted you gone, all I have to do is not text back, or tell you to your face to fuck off,” Gerry says harshly. “But I had a lot of time away. Just to think, about—about what _I_ want, for a change. And now you’re back, so I’ve decided—okay. That’s something I want.” His arms tighten around Jon. “This is my choice. I just—god _damn_ it, Jon, you’re an impulsive fucking idiot and I missed you. We can’t—what happened _happened_ and there’s no going back from that, but I _missed_ you.”

“Oh,” Jon’s voice breaks.

“So don’t you shut me out,” Gerry tells him. “And if I want out again, then I’ll get out and I know you’ll let me get out, but right now I’m just—I’m _here_ , all right? I’m not _back_ , because there’s no going back, so I’m just… I’m here again, and I want to be here, and that’s gonna have to be enough.”

It is, of course. It always has been.

* * *

* * *

**#5**

“ _..._ _The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul._ ”

The statement ends. The breath leaves him—and with it, everything else. The yawning emptiness of isolation filled in with rot and corruption, like a hollow tree teeming with crawling insects. The festering terror and revulsion, mingling with a love as sweet as antifreeze.

The song. The _itch_.

The next breath Jon drags into his lungs is a broken, unsteady thing, but a clean one. His hands shake as he puts the statement down and fumbles to stop the recording.

He’s being ridiculous. Just a couple of weeks ago he would have recorded this one as easily as any other; it’s hardly the first time he’s fed the Beholding with an avatar’s metamorphosis. But no, just because he spent one week listening to Prentiss posture at him from the other side of his front door—

 _Knock knock_.

When Jon comes back into himself, it takes a moment to remember where he is: the institute, the Archives, the storage room where he usually hides to record statements before Martin can get to them.

More importantly, this is not his bedroom. Not his flat. And that is not Prentiss. It’s Martin, actually, which is just as bad for wildly different reasons.

“Jon?” Martin asks, in a worried tone that suggests this is not the first time he’s addressed him since walking in. “Are you alright?”

It’s difficult to speak steadily, or calmly, when his throat feels like it’s trying to strangle itself. “Fine,” comes out rough and harsh, because at least Martin is used to Jon’s rudeness and won’t question it the way he would question, say, Jon suddenly bursting into tears.

Martin’s “Oh,” is bland and unruffled; it’s been a while since Jon’s tone bothered him enough to show it. “Well, I was wondering if you’ve been ‘borrowing’ statements off my desk again? There’s one by Jane Prentiss that I was hoping to get to.”

Jon almost wants to laugh, because he knows for a fact that Prentiss’s statement was locked in his desk drawer before his ten-day absence, and the only reason it was on Martin’s was that the others rifled through his things while he was gone.

But he doesn’t laugh, because if he laughs then he risks flying into hysterics. So, instead, he gathers up the pages, pops the tape out of the recorder, and puts both of them down in front of Martin before getting up to leave.

“Already recorded it,” he says shortly.

“O-oh.” Usually this is the part where Martin gets irritated with him for appropriating Head Archivist duties. But this time, there’s nothing but relief on Martin’s face when he sees the job already done and over with.

Jon remembers the digging he had to do just to find the statement, as if Martin had been burying it in other tasks, putting it off as long as possible.

The phantom crawling returns for a split second, and Jon suppresses a full-body shudder. It’s going to stay with him for a while, compounded by ten days’ worth of sleepless paranoia. And in the meantime, Martin gets to avoid this little bit of unpleasantness.

And that’s the point of all of this, isn’t it? If it’s happening to Jon then at least it’s not happening to the people who never asked for this.

“Thank you,” Martin says quietly.

“Looked like it was giving you trouble.” Jon leaves before Martin can reply.

Even disregarding Elias’s omnipresence, there’s no guarantee of seclusion in the archives, or in most of the institute’s main building. So Jon darts up the stairs, viciously ignores every face he passes, and finally makes it out into the small courtyard where employees take the occasional smoke break. The fresh air does nothing to dispel the feeling of being watched, but at least there’s no one else physically around.

And that means he’s not going to find a better place to sink to the ground and quietly ride out his panic, out of sight from everyone but the one whose gaze is everywhere.

His phone is already in his hand, the action so unconscious that he might have suspected the Web if it weren’t for the contact beneath his hovering thumb. No name, just the cartoonish images of a ghost, a skull, and a cat. This isn’t outside manipulation; it’s pure, fear-driven instinct.

Jon wars with himself. His ears still ring with the memory of knocking, and the prickling up his arms and spine could be worms if he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine. He knows how to make it go away, or at least ease it. All he has to do is call.

But he shouldn’t _have_ _to_. It may feel like he’s drowning, but that doesn’t give him the right to drag others down with him.

No. He can’t do it. He’ll wait for it to go away on its own, and he won’t have to—

The phone vibrates, and he nearly drops it. The ghost-skull-cat faces grin at him from the screen, and Jon answers it, because he may deny himself, but he can never deny Gerry anything.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey Jon._ ”

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“ _Why does something have to be wrong?_ ” Gerry asks, a bit defensively. “ _Can’t I just call you and see how you’re doing?_ ”

“R-right, sorry.” Jon’s voice cracks. “Sorry, I just—” His throat squeezes shut, and he ducks his head into his hand.

“ _Jon?_ ” Gerry’s voice cuts through the rising fog. “ _Jon, talk to me._ ”

“I just… I was about to call you, but…”

Gerry sighs. “But knowing you, you were probably trying to talk yourself out of it, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers.

“ _Hey, no. None of that. Tell me what you need._ ”

“Nothing,” Jon says. “Nothing, Gerry, I’m just being—”

“ _Jon_.”

Jon sucks in a shaky breath. “Just—talk to me. That’s all. Just talk. Doesn’t matter what.”

“ _Righto. So, last week_ _Georgie dragged me out to go look for this new Hungarian place she’s never been to before_ _—_ _and I almost called bullshit because personally, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a Hungarian restaurant in London_ _that Georgina Barker_ _hasn’t been to…_ ”

Gerry’s voice washes over him as he talks about everything and nothing—everything that happened during his and Georgie’s quest for Hungarian cuisine, and nothing about fears or monsters or Dread Powers. It’s almost as good as having him there, almost as good as an arm around his shoulders, shielding him from the crawling itch. Jon ducks his head low, pressing the phone to his ear, letting his hair fall over his face and hide the tears that slip free before he can stop them.

Eventually his breathing eases, and the relief brings a rush of renewed tears that ends almost as abruptly as it begins.

“ _All right?_ ” Gerry asks softly.

Jon takes a deep, shaky breath, and then a second, until he finally feels ready to speak without his voice wobbling. “Yeah. Yeah, I—yes.” He lets himself have one last sniffle, breathes out heavily once more, and with that it’s over. “I’m alright. Thank you.”

“ _Good,_ ” Gerry says, audibly relieved. “ _What time d’you get back?_ ”

“It’s… hard to say.”

“ _Give it your best shot._ ”

“I genuinely don’t know,” Jon says. “You know how easy it is for me to lose track of time.”

“ _Don’t care. Set an alarm. If you’re living under my roof, you’re eating and sleeping like a human being._ ”

“I feel like you’re being just slightly hypocritical.”

“ _I can be as hypocritical as I like. Dinner’s_ _at_ _seven so you’d better be here._ ”

In spite of himself, Jon smiles. “Just as long as it’s not Hungarian.”

“ _Don’t tempt me, Sims. Do we have a deal?_ ”

Jon laughs, a quiet wheezy noise in the otherwise silent courtyard. “Put the cat on and we have a deal.”

“ _You drive a hard bargain. Give me a moment to find him. I’ve been teaching him how to play Marco Polo. Listen—Marco!_ ” There’s an answering meow. “ _Oh, there he is. Hang on._ ” Footsteps, then rustling, and finally Gerry speaks again, his voice further away from the phone. “ _Go on, say hello, it’s Jon. You like Jon. He sneaks you the good treats._ ”

Tom Tildrum’s rumbling purr reaches Jon’s ears, and the last bit of tension in his spine eases. Now that he thinks about it, it’s easier to motivate himself to leave the institute at a reasonable hour when he knows there’s a cat waiting for him at the end.

And Gerry, of course. But he’s still re-learning how to let himself enjoy that.

Gerry grunts, either hefting the cat in his arms or putting him down. “ _Satisfied?_ ”

“Very,” Jon replies. “I’ll be there by seven.”

“ _Fantastic. I’ll see you then._ ”

“Thank you,” Jon says softly. “Really. I know things have been weird, and I’m not exactly the most… open. So, thank you.”

“ _You’re welcome,_ ” Gerry replies, quietly earnest. “ _And I meant what I said before, Jon. I want you here. I’m glad you’re back._ ”

“I’ll see you later,” Jon says. Then, after a moment, he adds, “With the good treats.”

Gerry sighs heavily. “ _Jon, one of these days I’ll get you to treat yourself the way you treat the cats in your life._ ”

“I’ve got to get back before I’m missed,” Jon says.

“ _Alright. Bye, Jon._ ”

His legs are stiff from crouching for so long. Jon rises slowly, muscles protesting until he’s finally upright again. The courtyard is still empty, and even the press of eyes feels marginally less heavy than before. Either Elias is focusing elsewhere, or talking to Gerry really does make things feel less dire.

It won’t last forever. But he’s starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it while it’s here.

Jon takes one last deep breath, squares his shoulders, and walks back into the Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, quick announcement: If Not For Hope is going on hiatus for a bit.
> 
> Now that I've gotten past one of the major story beats, I've come to the realization that I sort of charged into this AU half-cocked. I didn't plan out this story nearly as much as I should have before I started posting, and as a result there are a few things that I don't feel I've properly set up, and a few more things that I kind of threw in without really thinking about them properly. Basically this story's kind of a mess in my head that needs cleaning up before I can comfortably move forward with it. So, I'm going to be taking some time to properly organize it, figure out where I want to go with this and how I want to get there, and also work on other stories.
> 
> On that note, don't worry! I'll still be writing and posting while I let this one sit. I have a couple other AUs and oneshot ideas in this fandom that are near and dear to my heart, and worrying about If Not For Hope has kind of been taking up all my creative space. So hopefully, this hiatus will also give me the opportunity to write some of that stuff, too.
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading and commenting!


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